


Planting Seeds in Vanquished Soil

by millari



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: 50th Hunger Games, Abusive Parents, Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, District 11, District 12, District 3 (Hunger Games), District 4, Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Mags being awesome, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Victory Tour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millari/pseuds/millari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his victory tour, Haymitch soon finds out that the real Games have only just begun, and survival  means learning to spin out a web of lies and compromises. The Games' oldest living victor and arguably its most intelligent one show him that even in the tainted life of a Victor, there are still ways to prevail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a finished multi-chaptered work that will be posting about once a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful cover art by thewildwilds  
> thewildwilds.tumblr.com

While President Snow takes his sweet time appearing at the Capitol's annual Victory Banquet, fiftieth Hunger Games winner Haymitch Abernathy stands underneath the vaulted ceilings of the President's mansion, feeling hollow and antsy. 

The cold, white marble everywhere exudes a majestic purity that to Haymitch feels like a sick joke. Underneath a glittering electric chandelier made of real gold and diamonds, he poses for photographs with sponsors and well-connected fans, while his escort, Lucilla Braithwaite, hovers only one or two steps away, making small talk. She seems to know half the people here, either personally or because they're apparently Capitol celebrities. She's dressed for this unprecedented occasion – a victor from District Twelve – in a long, violet strapless evening gown and a wig of bright canary yellow that Haymitch finds slightly unhinging. 

While he is the center of attention here, Haymitch couldn't feel more alone right now, or more exhausted. But these sponsors and fans will be around next year, when he is a mentor instead of a tribute, and so the pressure to be witty and gracious, and above all cocksure – the image he projected for the Games – is daunting. It's not unlike being in the arena again, except here, _everyone_ around him is a Career. It makes him snappish at the least expected moments. 

He hopes it passes for the roguish charm. Or something. 

As the throng of party guests wanting his attention finally thins out for a while, a wisp of a girl appears before him, as if from out of nowhere, flanked by a Peacekeeper tastefully dressed as much as possible _not_ to look like a Peacekeeper. The guard formally introduces her to Haymitch as President Snow's only daughter. 

“I was quite impressed with you in the arena, Haymitch,” Cordelia Snow announces, her childish voice parroting the Capitol poise and absurd accent that has been trained into her all her life, but her ungainly arms thrust out at him in an inexperienced, girlish way, revealing her true age. “You were so brave.” 

She is holding a single perfect red rose between her fingers. 

“It's from my father's special greenhouse, here in the mansion,” she almost squeaks, and Haymitch quickly catches on that this is a besotted love offering. “I'm only thirteen, so I know we couldn't yet, but would you marry me, Haymitch, when I'm old enough?” 

The mix of girlish innocence and clumsy forwardness elicits soft, indulgent chuckles from the sponsors still lingering nearby. Even her Peacekeeper cracks a grin. But all Haymitch can think about as he looks her over is that she's just barely old enough to have faced him in the arena. She could have been one of the faces that have been haunting him ever since he awoke in a hospital a week ago, with a large seam of stitches running across his abdomen. 

Except she wasn't, and she never will be, he remembers with a surge of jealous anger. But losing his temper at President Snow's daughter seems even to Haymitch like an unwise idea. His eyes flicker towards Lucilla for guidance on this awkward bit of etiquette. She just shoots him a nervous smile. 

He stands there stalling for time by taking the rose the girl has offered him, pretending to examine it. It's almost garish in its perfection, like everything in the Capitol. He wracks his brain for a suitable answer as he bends his head down a little to smell the thing. But one sniff and he jolts back, his heart beginning to race, his entire body rebelling in self-preservation against the aroma that is too reminiscent of the poisonous flowers of his arena. The voices around him – the hyperbolic gasps of excitement and their high-pitched peals of laughter – suddenly sound like the chittering of those bright pink, green and yellow birds that were everywhere in his Games, the ones that killed Maysilee. 

He takes a deep breath in and out, to regain control. 

“Well, if you watched me with Caesar Flickerman, then you must know that I already have a girl back home,” he finally replies. “I'm afraid I couldn't live with myself if I broke my promise to her.” 

He tries to produce an overdone, flirtatious regret that they cannot possibly be a couple, the way he knows Lucilla would do it. The thought of Alsey possibly witnessing this conversation on television makes him slightly ill, and so he's not ready for the girl's startling response: 

“Well, my father could execute her.” 

Her reply comes almost without pause, without forethought, like it's the most sensible solution in the world. Unlike his, the girl's words contain no irony whatsoever. Lucilla coughs a little, the only evidence that this turn in the conversation is out of the realm of the normal, even for Capitol society, and that it certainly won't be making it onto the television recaps. “Haymitch, have you tried the canapés yet?” she interrupts. 

But child or no, President Snow's daughter or no, Haymitch feels the snappishness bubbling up inside him, and he ignores Lucilla's attempt at intervention. 

“Listen, sweetheart...” he begins, his attention back on the girl, his tone shifting in a direction he knows will lead nowhere good. But before he can say more, Lucilla has suddenly been afflicted with a much louder, more intrusive cough that startles both teenagers into looking her way. She takes the advantage and wraps a possessive arm around the crook of Haymitch's elbow. 

“I'm very sorry, Miss Snow.” Her words are all deference, but there's a steel underneath that he has learned in the past three weeks not to contradict. “Haymitch hasn't yet met Artemis Cantebury, and I can see from here that he has a rare free moment. I really do need to steal this young man away for a few minutes.” 

It's enough to bring him to his senses. The girl's eyes narrow into an outraged glare at Lucilla that says she's not used to being thwarted like this, but when it does happen, she's used to making someone pay. For a panicky instant, Haymitch imagines her ordering the Peacekeepers to cart Lucilla off to her own execution; she looks like she might block them from leaving at the very least. But thankfully, Cordelia Snow's personal Peacekeeper steps in, just as the girl is on the verge of speech.

“I'm afraid I've just received word from your father's attendants, Miss Snow.” He touches an invisible earpiece. “He's about to come downstairs. You really should be in line to receive him.” 

She sighs loudly, but is forced to concede. “I hope you enjoy the rose,” she tells Haymitch with a perfectly awful Capitol smile, and he can no longer manufacture one back for her. But he does manage to nod and bring the sickly sweet thing back up to his nose and hold it there, as if appreciating it. As soon as Lucilla turns his body in the opposite direction, he lets his hand fall to his side and exhales in relief, glad to have it as far away from himself as possible. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs at Lucilla as they walk off. 

“Don't lose that thing.” Lucilla cocks her head and whispers in his ear, as if she's telling him about a trifling bit of gossip. “In fact, you'd better wear it on your lapel. I'll see what I can do about finding a pin here once I leave you to chat with Cantebury.” 

“I don't want to wear it,” Haymitch mutters. “It smells bad, and that girl is twisted.” 

Already facing forward again, Lucilla pulls him along more aggressively, murmuring so just Haymitch can hear: “You'll wear it with a smile,” she orders. “Snow absolutely dotes on his daughter; it wouldn't do to insult her. He gives her nearly anything she wants.” 

“What, including me?” he retorts. 

“Don't be ludicrous,” she murmurs back, her tone commanding him: “ _and keep your voice down_. You're a victor, but you're not untouchable, you know.” 

She stops near the group of Gamemakers Haymitch remembers watching him during Training Week and positions herself before him, using the pretense of adjusting his tie. “And you needn't worry about little Miss Snow.” 

“She just offered to have my girl executed!” But he keeps his voice down like she's ordered. 

Lucilla rolls her eyes. “She's _thirteen_. And I'm sure she had a crush on last year's victor too. Now, you're attractive and charming in a certain … _determined_ way for someone coming from such a backward district. But you're hardly Snow's idea of son-in-law material, so I really wouldn't worry about it. Still, there's absolutely no point in doing anything to call negative attention to yourself, is there?” 

She's right, and it's annoying, so Haymitch is reduced to twisting the rose's stem back and forth in twitchy anger as Lucilla more or less shoves him in front of the Head Gamesmaker, Artemis Cantebury, a man who looks to be in his forties – which probably means he's in his fifties, Haymitch thinks. The man is tall and thin with a beard that's dyed a brilliant aqua color. 

“Artemis!” she exclaims in that overdone way everyone at this party seems to have. “I must congratulate you on an unparalleled arena this year! You have clearly outdone yourself!” 

Haymitch watches the two of them lean in to kiss each other on both cheeks. “Thank you, Lucilla. You're looking well.” His voice is just slightly thick with drink as he pulls back and visibly observes Haymitch standing there. “It's the young man of the hour!” he booms. 

Lucilla beams. “Artemis,” she says formally, “I'm so pleased and proud to present to you your newest victor, Haymitch Abernathy of District Twelve.”

Cantebury takes Haymitch's hand and gives it a squeeze, saying, “Pleased to meet you, Haymitch. Very creative win.” 

But before Haymitch can thank him, the recorded fanfare of the President begins blaring out of invisible speakers in the ceiling and Cantebury goes silent, his gaze flying off Haymitch as he moves closer towards the marble staircase at the far end of the ballroom. President Snow, the tall, thin man with paper-white hair whose slight appearance nevertheless commands the gazes of the entire room, appears at the top of the wide, majestic staircase, which is adorned on either side with several thick bushes in pots. Each contains the same kind of roses Haymitch is holding in his hand. 

The multitude of thick, red flowers in such close proximity to each other makes Haymitch think of two symmetrical waves of blood spilling on either side of Snow, flowing alongside him as he descends the staircase. For a terrible moment, the fanfare around them morphs in Haymitch's ears into the trumpets of the Games, and he has to stop himself from looking up into the sky for announcements of newly-dead tributes. 

“Every year I see him, I never get over the fact of how small he is,” Lucilla breathes, watching Snow with a touch of awe in her voice. “And he's so brave to let himself go gray like that too.” 

He knows he should leave it alone, but somehow he can't. “So brave that he sends children into the arena each year to kill each other for his entertainment,” he snipes under his breath. 

Lucilla's eyes widen and her breathless excitement immediately collapses into an ugly scowl. She places a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezes hard, capturing his gaze and refusing to let it go. 

“Do you want to be the first victor in history to be arrested for treason?” she hisses at him. “Because that's exactly the sort of thing a remark like that leads to.” 

He just gapes at her, all the sarcasm falling away as he becomes aware of the streak of buried panic suddenly in her voice. 

“And if you don't care about yourself,” she goes in for the kill, “then at least think of how every single one of your actions reflect upon me.” She stares him down until chastened, he nods in spooked acquiescence and Lucilla turns them both to watch Snow, who has arrived at the bottom of the stairs. The President of Panem showers the crowd with a benevolent smile, then take his daughter's hand as he is enveloped into the mass of people with the regal air of a monarch. 

“So!” Artemis Cantebury returns once the moment is over, his booming voice preceding him even as the smatterings of crowd chatter have crescendoed back up to normal levels. There is an amused twinkle in his eye. “I finally get to actually talk to the clever Haymitch Abernathy, the tribute who beat my game!” 

“Oh yes!” Lucilla exclaims with what Haymitch realizes a second later is an exhalation of relief. “He's _awfully_ clever, isn't he? To have won the Games without the benefit of a mentor to guide him on strategy! I could help him with the interviews and his overall image, but I must admit I wasn't much use once it came time for the arena.”

She neglects to mention that Haymitch didn't have a mentor because the one that he and Maysilee were supposed to have killed himself the night before Reaping Day. 

“That's not what I heard, Lucilla,” Cantebury chuckles. “I heard you were quite the force to be reckoned with amongst the sponsors. But yes, he was quite the topic of discussion in Gamesmakers' HQ. He kept us scrambling.” He gives Haymitch an indulgent wink. “Very clever boy.” 

“Indeed.” 

Haymitch nearly jumps at the feel of a hand falling like dead weight onto the back of his shoulder. He turns to find himself face to face with President Snow. “Most clever.” 

The man's smile is gracious, but it does not reach his eyes – which unlike Cantebury's, show no spark of indulgence. “And you know what clever boys get,” he says in a low, rumbling voice.

Haymitch just stares at him, their faces too close together for his comfort. _No, I don't know_ , he wants to say. _What do they get_? But something won't let him get the words out, and then the moment's gone anyway. A tall woman wearing pink wings and speaking in elongated Capitol vowels like Lucilla has already grabbed Snow's attention, and just like that, he's gone. 

Once again, Haymitch is reminded of just how much he can't wait to get home. At least back home, people behave like people, he thinks, and the expectations are clear. 

**

Sixteen-year-old Haymitch is not old enough to have actually experienced the return of a triumphant victor to District Twelve. But he's pretty sure it's not supposed to go like this. 

Pausing to gaze out of one of the last windows on the train car before they exit, Haymitch frowns at what he sees: A crowd has gathered near the train platform to greet their arrival, as they're required to, just like when the victors come through here on their victory tours, but their stony expressions are not what he had expected. This should be a day of genuine celebration, shouldn't it? One of their own has returned from the meat grinder alive, a giant _fuck you_ to the Capitol and the Career system the Capitol quietly let happen, ensuring that a win like Haymitch's is almost impossible. But instead, he sees dead eyes everywhere, the Peacekeepers standing behind everyone, guns at the ready, like they expect violence. The spectators definitely look like they're not here by choice. 

What is going on? 

Could his victory in the arena have inspired some kind of mini-rebellion at home, he wonders? Have the citizens of District Twelve been fighting back against the Peacekeepers since his victory? It seems inconceivable, but a crackdown would explain the behavior of both the Peacekeepers and the people in this crowd. Still, who would want to jeopardize the extra food rations Haymitch's victory would be bringing here soon? It doesn't make sense.

And anyway, rebellion is not what he's reading in the sullen faces of the crowd. The people here look more like they're attending a funeral. 

“You'd think they'd be a bit more animated to have you back,” Lucilla remarks uneasily, straightening her wig in one of the windows before stepping toward the door. 

“Well, I wasn't the most popular person here before I left,” he half-explains. Perhaps he shouldn't have expected that to change. 

Lucilla shakes her head, careful to not let the wig move too much. “But you're a _victor_!” she cries in disbelief, then peers out the window again at the crowd, clearly thinking them a conundrum. 

“Please don't take offense at this, Haymitch.” Her face in the window reflecting back in dark shadow looks disgusted. “I _have_ really enjoyed you being my tribute this year. But in all honesty, I'll be glad once I get a district with a little more … spirit.” 

Haymitch resists the urge to mention how she used to complain that he'd drive her to an early grave, or how it's hard to have spirit when you're starving. Instead, he contents himself with a roll of his eyes, because well, it doesn't do any good to talk to Lucilla about these things, and as annoying as she often is, she did step in and learn in a hurry how to get him sponsors when the man who would have normally done that for him, Swagger March, had offed himself the night before the Reaping. 

Haymitch still seethes to think about the man and how full of shit he was. Every year, when he brought their tributes home, he’d give a little speech about how he’d tried to bring one of them home alive, and how next year was going to be different. Next year, always next year. And yet, after all those empty promises, it had only taken a vain, ambitious Capitol woman to close the deal. What an incompetent ass that man had been.

Lucilla, to her credit, had been the one who had taken a look at her tributes - double the amount than usual, even - and told them it wasn’t fair of their mentor to leave them in the lurch like that. 

“Swagger may have given up, but I wasn’t raised to be a quitter,” she’d told them with such a ridiculous sense of her own _gravitas_ that Haymitch hadn’t taken it seriously at first. “I won’t let you down.” 

But indeed, she had gotten him through it. She was the one who had encouraged him to reshape his anger at being abandoned, at his typical horrible luck at being picked for the Games, at life in general, into a devil-may-care sarcasm and a roguish confidence that would unsettle other players and charm sponsors. She was right: The sponsors had eaten it up. As much as he hates to admit it, she probably saved his life. 

Much like she had in Snow's mansion, Lucilla now grabs the crook of his elbow and pulls him out onto the threshold so the people of District Twelve can see them standing on the steps to the train car. The determination in her stance belies all the damning evidence before her. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of District Twelve!” she announces in a loud, formal voice. “I give you your victor of the fiftieth Hunger Games – Haymitch Abernathy!”

Silence. Awful silence. There isn't even the usual polite patter of applause that District Twelve reserves for the Victory Tour appearances. There's nothing but silent stares. 

Haymitch has always been kind of an outcast in his own community, thanks to his father's reputation and his own tendency to not to hold his tongue around stupid adults; but mostly people just leave him alone, very alone. He has rarely provoked this kind of passive-aggressive anger. 

“They should have at least put up a welcome banner or _something_ ,” Lucilla admonishes with a whisper. “It's a good thing the cameras don't come for this part.” 

_Killer_ , a voice hisses loudly from somewhere in the middle of the crowd, causing Lucilla to jerk her head toward the sound. Her eyes search the crowd accusingly. 

Whoever it was, Haymitch knows they only dared because it would be impossible to identify the source. But the taunt leaves him confused. Of course he's a killer, but they all knew that, knew that was what they were sending him to become. And it's not like he had to kill anyone from his district. So why should they care? What are they angry about? 

It doesn't make sense.

Lucilla guides him down the train's metal steps and onto the platform. Harlan Whitehead, Head Peacekeeper for District Twelve, an aging bull of a man whose body is slowly turning to fat at about the same pace as his hair is turning gray, walks up to greet them in silence. Behind him is his sergeant, whose name Haymitch can't remember anymore, because everyone secretly refers to him as “Crates” for his tendency to pilfer from the crates of tesserae deliveries. 

Crates, with his usual bored demeanor, doesn't bother with any greetings, but Haymitch is surprised at how Harlan seems to be deliberately avoiding Haymitch's gaze – surprising because the last time Haymitch saw him was moments after he had been reaped, when Harlan had escorted him into the Justice Hall and grunted out some words about how he'd look out for Haymitch's family, giving Haymitch no time to thank him or even respond before he walked out and left Haymitch to say goodbye to his mom and Jackson. 

Seeing Harlan again when he never expected to, Haymitch tries defiantly to capture his gaze, to try and get some sense of why this is happening, but it's clear that the man is refusing to engage. 

_This is all wrong,_ he thinks, but the explanation is a mystery. 

“Where's your family?” Lucilla whispers as they are moved through the crowd to the dais. 

The unexpected tenor of this homecoming has taken Haymitch so by surprise that this question hasn't occurred to him until now. He scans the crowd of blank faces, a knot of unease forming in his stomach.

“I don't know,” he murmurs. “They should be here.” At least his mother and Jackson should be. His father showing up anywhere he's supposed to is always a fifty-fifty gamble, and him showing up sober is a hundred-percent guaranteed losing bet. Alsey should be here too. She had told him when he'd left that she was his girl and so she'd wait for him. Unlike Haymitch, she'd refused to believe that he wouldn't survive. 

The guards have made way for them through the entire crowd. He and Lucilla walk up to the dais where this all started less than a month ago, and Haymitch notices that there are a mere three seats up there, one for him, one for Lucilla and one for the Mayor. It's as if they all knew very well that his parents wouldn't be making an appearance here. Haymitch hunches a little, as his sense of unease grows. But right now, there is nothing he can do. He is trapped in the official formalities of a victor's homecoming. 

However, once they're up onstage, it becomes clear that Lucilla can't wait to get out of there. As the spectators continue not to clap at the usual places, anxiety begins to carve into the edges of her eternally sunny disposition. She plays the video from the Capitol that lays out to the district in Snow's smug baritone and flowery language exactly which rewards they will be reaping on account of Haymitch's victory. 

“The Capitol is generous to those who bring pride and honor to the nation. Mother Panem feeds her children who love her back,” his recorded voice concludes, accompanied by images of lush green meadows and fertile wheat fields that don't exist in Twelve. After the video ends, the crowd looks distinctly unconvinced, and Haymitch can tell from the way her facial muscles twitch and her hand clenches onto the podium that even Lucilla can see it. At his Reaping, she had spent a couple of minutes happily adding off-the-cuff editorial comments about the video and about the glory of the Games in general. But now, she seems to snap this ceremony into high speed. She practically shoves the oversized ceremonial bag of money, the first monthly installment of Haymitch's lifetime winnings, into the Mayor's hands. When she gives Haymitch his speech, he notices that she has given him only two index cards to read, not the three he remembers seeing on the train. 

He's glad it's short though, because the way the crowd's acting, and the absence of everyone he expected to be here is causing disturbing scenarios to unravel in his mind. The most likely one is his father going on another bender and beating up his mom too badly for her to be here. He tries to tamp down the rage this image provokes by reminding himself that he's got a new home in Victor's Village to bring his mother and brother to now, and that the second the Peacekeepers turn over the keys, he's going to take her and Jackson out of his father's house forever. 

But if that's what has happened, that still doesn't explain why isn't Alsey here, does it? Is she at his house caring for his mom? 

“Do you want me to bring you to your house?” Lucilla asks when the ceremony ends and the Peacekeepers are dispersing the crowds out of the square. But everything about her demeanor says she'd rather not, and Haymitch doesn't want her to see whatever has happened at his house either, so he eagerly lets her go. 

“Nah. I'll be fine, Lucilla. Really,” he says. “Thanks for everything.” 

Lucilla rewards him with a smile of warm gratitude he can tell is genuine, then surprises him with a quick peck on the forehead before he can duck out of it. “All right then. I'll finally meet your family when I come back in six months for the Victory Tour,” she declares. “The Peacekeepers will come to your house tomorrow to escort you to your new luxurious home.

“I do wish I could be there to see your face when you see it for the first time,” she sighs, despite her subdued mood. “But when I return to get you ready for your Victory Tour, I expect you to throw me a dinner befitting your new status, understood?” 

“Sure,” he huffs, impatient for her to leave. 

“You take care of yourself, clever Haymitch,” she says with a fond air. “I look forward to seeing you in six months.” 

“Me too, Lucilla,” he replies. But he doesn't look forward to seeing her in six months, because that will mean it's time for his Victory Tour, where he'll be forced to dance for the Capitol yet again, and where people who have lost their children will be the ones forced to applaud. But he's going to end up seeing her again now, and then again and again, year after year, so he better get used to working with her. And in a weird way, the stories Lucilla tells herself about him remind him a bit of his mom, who weaves his father's violent, drunken behavior into a story about just how much he loves them, even though that makes no damn sense when you consider the facts. 

The reminder of his mother gets him moving quickly on the half-mile walk from the square to his family's home. When he imagines mom in bed, unable to get up, Alsey bent over her in concern, he does the last quarter-mile or so at a frantic run. 

The house is ominously dark when he arrives. No smoke coming from the chimney either. Odd. While it's still September, and not yet cold enough to warrant a fire for heat, his mother should have a cooking fire going at this time of day, especially now that they don't have to worry ever again about conserving their supply of wood. 

He bursts in through the wooden front door, which empties right into the kitchen. Because of that, he's used to associating entering his house with the aromas of food cooking. In fact, right about now he should be overwhelmed by the aromas of a triumphant meal, shouldn't he?

He flies through the house now, looking for signs of life, but there's none, except for the random liquor bottle left here and there throughout and the small pile of dishes in the sink that look like they've been sitting there for days. By contrast, his and Jackson's bedroom looks as neat and tidy as the day he left it a month ago – Jackson's stuffed bear sitting jauntily atop his neatly-made bed. His own second-best shirt and trousers is carefully laid out on his bed, as if in anticipation of a celebration.

 _Did she finally leave the bastard_? Maybe knowing that Haymitch would be given a new home in Victor's Village finally had given her the courage to leave and take Jackson. Maybe Harlan Whitehead let them into his new home early and they're already living there. He would probably do that for them, to protect them from his father, who must have already figured out that there was no way his son was going to let him move in with them. 

But Jackson would never leave without his favorite toys. He notices again the knot of unease from earlier in the pit of his stomach.

He walks much more slowly now to the last room in the house he hasn't checked – his parents' bedroom. The door is a tiny sliver ajar, and Haymitch pushes it open slowly, beginning to wish that this could all be a good-natured prank, that his whole family is hiding inside, waiting to surprise him with a party in his honor. But nothing so far about his arrival today in District Twelve has suggested this. 

A wave of relief washes over him at the sight of his father sprawled out on the bed, asleep. It's a feeling that quickly dissipates once he realizes that Randall Abernathy, whose dark curls sticking to his forehead are the blueprint for Haymitch's, is actually passed out drunk. No change there, Haymitch thinks. 

The rest of his family is nowhere to be found. Haymitch picks up his father's heavy arm and shakes it a bit, but it's no good: he's too far gone. So he hunts around the kitchen for a pitcher and fills it with water from the house cistern, then uses all his strength to haul his father's dead weight off the bed and onto the floor. No reason his mother should have to sleep in a soaked bed. 

The cold water dumped on his head finally sparks Randall to life, sputtering and cursing his way into consciousness. He is wild-eyed and ready to strike out, but Haymitch is ready for this, and keeps his distance, having learned from past experience the consequences of this little trick. When his father is finally able to focus, he makes the predictable lunge for Haymitch's feet and misses by a good distance. 

“Thanks for the welcome home, Dad,” he mutters, then gets down to real business. “Where'd Ma and Jackson go?” 

His father pulls himself up so that he's sitting on the floor. He doesn't even remark on the fact that he is soaked, yet Haymitch still stands ready to dodge or run if necessary. But Randall doesn't make any more moves for his son; he just stares at him in wide-eyed shock. “Do you mean they didn't tell you?” he roars, then quiets down, muttering to himself. “What the hell was the point, then?” 

The knot in Haymitch's stomach twists. “Who didn't tell me? Tell me what?” 

When Randall gets to his feet, he's definitely swaying. He stumbles around in place a bit until he wipes his face with the first thing he finds – an embroidered doily that his mom treasures as a heirloom that's been in her family since before the Dark Days. Watching him defile this precious piece of fabric without a second thought sends a chill down Haymitch's spine. _Ma's not here anymore_ , he realizes. 

_And she left these things behind_. 

“Tell me what, Dad?” he demands, a tremble in his voice. 

Randall flings the sopping rag away, and it lands carelessly on the floor. “She's dead,” he intones. “They're dead. Her and Jackson.” His foot kicks over a half-empty bottle of whisky on the floor by the bed, and it begins to spill its contents on the floor, but Randall swipes it back up into his hand to save it. He takes a swig, then carefully places it on the night table. Haymitch's feet have fallen out from under him, and he finds himself sitting on the bed, not sure how he got there. “Dead?” His voice is a hollow echo. This isn't possible. He's won the Hunger Games. He's a victor. Nothing can touch him now. Not even death, which he beat in the arena. Forty-seven times. 

“How?” he chokes out.

“Peacekeepers came in the middle of the day, two weeks ago,” Randall continues in the same monotone. “They didn't explain nothing, just took your Ma and Jackson away. An hour later, Peacekeepers shot 'em both in the square, made everyone in town stand there and watch.” 

He grabs the bottle again, takes a swig, and this time, hangs onto it, clutching it by the neck next to his hip. 

“But...” is all Haymitch can manage at first. His father is drunk, but it's Haymitch who feels like the room is spinning. His brain is working at a crawl right now. All he can think about is how Jackson wanted to be a Peacekeeper himself one day, despite Haymitch constantly telling him to shut up about it, that Peacekeepers were bad people. He must have been so confused and scared when his idols had turned on him. 

What could make anyone think that a housewife and her young son could deserve execution? 

“But Harlan knows us!” he cries. “He liked us! Why did he do this?” He suddenly remembers how the Head Peacekeeper wouldn't look him in the eye today.

“He liked you and Jackson,” his father corrects, then adds with a long-held and paranoid bitterness. “And he was after your mother.” 

This isn't really true. Harlan clearly wasn’t after Katherine Abernathy, because Capitol knew he had been out at the Abernathy home enough times over the years whenever neighbors filed noise complaints, which everyone in the Seam knew was code for, 'we're worried he's going to kill her, but we don't poke our noses in other folks' business.' And while his mom would never press charges against her husband, if Harlan had really wanted to steal her away, all he would have had to do was provoke Randall when he was in one of his drunken rages, and then 'unavoidably' shoot him while on duty. But it was obvious that Harlan only felt bad for Randall's family, and had especially liked Jackson, though had never interfered, other than to warn Randall off hitting his family, or to sometimes take him into “protective custody” overnight. 

How could he have possibly gone through with executing _Jackson_? 

“Anyway, Harlan didn't do it himself,” his father grunts. “They brought in special Peacekeepers from the Capitol. They probably didn't trust him to go through with it.” 

“But I don't understand. They must have given you some reason when they took them,” Haymitch sputters, although he suspects that his brain already knows the answer and is not letting him find it. For some reason, he keeps hearing Lucilla's little sigh of relief at the Victory Banquet. 

The bottle goes flying in a fury towards Haymitch, but the years of living with his father has sharpened his senses and he ducks just in time as the thing shatters against the wall behind him, and alcohol begins to flood the bed sheets. 

“They didn't need to! Isn't it obvious? It was your fault, _clever Haymitch_.” He uses the catchphrase Lucilla got Flickerman and the other journalists repeating over and over during the Games, with a mocking, piss-poor imitation of the Capitol accent. 

Haymitch's eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?” 

“That stunt you pulled in the arena! You made them look stupid! What, you thought they would just let that go?” 

Haymitch freezes. _No, no, no. Can't be. They wouldn't. Not to a victor._. His mind rails at the simple logic his father has offered, preferring to exchange it with memories of Cantebury's joviality and the wink he gave Haymitch at the Victory Banquet. Haymitch had shown up his creation, and he hadn't been upset at all. 

But the illusion falls apart the moment his brain retrieves the adjacent memory of President Snow: _You know what clever boys get_. 

He jumps up in one wordless motion. He feels like he's suffocating. 

“They got your girl too,” Randall shrugs. “Alsey, right? They shot her right next to your mother and Jackson.” 

“But she didn't have anything to do with anything!” he sputters. Alsey has always been the kindest person in all of District Twelve, who would never hurt anyone, who can see the good in all people, even Haymitch. 

“Doesn't matter. She was your girl, or so you two said in all those interviews. Not like you ever bothered to tell me about her.” 

_I never told you about her because I didn't want you ruining it, like you ruin everything_ , Haymitch thinks with an inward snarl.

“All those interviews they did with her,” Randall says. “Her all starry-eyed and hopeful when you started winning, telling those journalists how you two were planning on going behind your parents' backs for a toasting if you came home alive.” When Haymitch says nothing, Randall's breath comes out in a bitter huffing sound. “It was everywhere on the damn viewscreens around here, all the damn time, the further you got. Of course they shot her.” 

Pain stabs through his temple. He had only made Alsey more of a target by talking about her in his interviews, on Lucilla's guidance. _The sponsors will positively eat up a tragic love story_ , she'd promised. 

How could Alsey be gone just like that? How could his mother and Jackson be gone? He _won_.

Paralysis quickly gives over to boiling rage, in desperate need of a target, and he realizes that he has never felt less afraid of his father in all his life. 

Before Randall can react, Haymitch is on him with the force of a Capitol train. He isn't strong enough under normal conditions to hit his father the way the man beats on Haymitch, but Randall is still in the ebbing throes of what must have been a several-days bender; he goes down easily. 

Once on the floor, though, Randall regains the weight advantage and soon manages to roll the two of them over, pinning Haymitch's arms to the floor above his head. Haymitch turns away from the thick layer of fermented liquor on his breath, barely containing his gag reflex. 

“What did you say?” he shouts at the useless bastard, who if the universe had any justice at all, wouldn't be alive right now. “Tell me what you said to them!” 

Randall snorts, still pinning down his son's arms. “What are you talking about?” 

Haymitch makes a futile struggle to break free. “Why didn't they kill you? You must have said something that convinced them not to take you too!”

“I didn't say nothing, clever boy. They just didn't want me, that's all.”

“Liar!” he screams at him, and takes the only shot he can with his arms pinned. He pushes upward as furiously as he can and manages to butt their foreheads together, hard. It hurts like hell, but it's worth the surprise on the man's face and the yelp of pain. The shock of it jerks Randall back, and it's just enough leverage to allow Haymitch to knee him in the groin. Randall lets go immediately and rolls off, caught up in a new and all-consuming world of pain. 

“It's so typical of you to let them take Ma and Jackson and sweet-talk your way out of it,” he hisses, jumping to his feet in a fighting stance. “Just like you sweet-talked your way out of her leaving you every time she thought about it. Every time I almost had her convinced.” 

At first, his father says nothing, too lost in his own pain, but eventually he manages, his voice hoarse with pain and anger, “Don't try to pin this on me, boy. I'm not the one around here everyone calls 'killer'. I'm not the one who messed with Snow's precious arena.” To Haymitch's shock, his father's voice chokes with what sounds like the threat of tears. 

“Oh what?” Haymitch snarls at him in disgust. “You gonna cry now? Little late for that, huh? Maybe you should have felt sad when you were beating the shit out of her all the time!” 

“Fuck you.” Randall's voice has already hardened again, perhaps recognizing the echo of his own stock phrases coming out of his son's mouth. “Fuck you, killer. You took my wife and the only son I care about.” 

“I hate you!” Haymitch shouts, then spits on the ground next to his father's curled-up body. “I wish you were dead!” 

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” Randall retorts with a harsh laugh. “Well, you're out of luck, sweetheart. The Capitol only takes away the ones we love. Now get the fuck out of my house.” 

Haymitch has to resist kicking him in the head with his new sponsor-donated steel-toed boots. At the last second, he tells himself he won't have yet another death on his hands, not even this man. So he turns around and kicks the nearest wall instead, as hard as he can. He walks towards the bedroom he shares with Jackson and begins throwing whatever random bits of his clothes and items he can find quickly into his old school satchel, bellowing, “I don't need you anymore!” into the hallway. 

He exits the bedroom with the pack on his back and Jackson's stuffed bear clutched in his left hand as tight as a vise. He'll go to Alsey's parents' house until tomorrow. At least they give a fuck about him. 

As he walks past the door to his parents' bedroom, Randall is still not up, but has managed to support himself upright with one palm flat on the floor, coughing. 

“Don't ever think about coming back,” he threatens as Haymitch's hand is already on the front door knob. 

“Just so you know,” Haymitch replies without turning around, his adrenaline fading fast, and his voice already sounding dead to his own ears, “if I ever come back here, it'll be to end you.”

With his father's labored breath still lingering in his ears, Haymitch walks out, closing the door on that relationship forever.


	2. Chapter 2

When he arrives at Alsey's parents' house, they won't open the door. He bangs on it anyway for a while, begging them to let him in, until he hears Alsey's mother crying inside. He stands there in silence, shocked and embarrassed at the sound, but unable to figure out what to do next. 

“Please, Haymitch,” Alsey's twelve-year-old sister whimpers through the door after a minute. “Please go away.” 

“Hazelle!” he exclaims, clinging to the sound of her voice. “Let me in! Please! I need to talk to them, just for a minute!” 

There is silence for several seconds. “Hazelle?” he tries again. Nothing. “Hazelle!” 

It takes few more seconds, but he hears her tentative, “Yeah?” 

“Please let me in,” he whispers, wondering if Alsey's parents are right on the other side, listening to everything. “My dad's kicked me out, I don't have anywhere else to go and I … I miss Alsey. I just want to talk to someone who knows her …” He hears no signs of life on the other side of the door. “Hazelle? You there?”

There's a sigh, much deeper and male. “Haymitch, you need to go. We can't help you.” 

He recognizes the voice as Alsey's father's. “Can't or won't?” he bites out; he can feel his eyes burning with tears he refuses to shed. “Galen, I swear to you, I had no idea this would happen. I was just trying to win.” 

“Well you should have known.” Galen's tone is devoid of accusation, like he's merely stating irrefutable fact. “I'm sorry, but I can't take any chances. I need to protect what's left of my family. If you value our lives, you'll stay away from us.” 

Haymitch bangs his forehead against the door in despair. “But I don't have anywhere to go. I don't have … anyone.” 

“You have a home in Victor's Village now. You'll have more money and food than you can use until you die. That's a lot more than anyone else around here has. Find a way to make a life with it. Maybe next year, if things calm down and they make you into a mentor, we can talk. But right now, you need to leave.” 

“I loved her, you know,” Haymitch says, his head still pressed into the wood. 

“I know. She loved you too. But everything's different now.” 

With nowhere else to go and nothing to lose, Haymitch goes to the Justice Hall and tries to get in to see Harlan so he can get into his home a day early.

“He's … he's t- too busy,” Harlan's assistant, a Twelve citizen with her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, stammers at him. She's having almost as much trouble looking Haymitch in the eye as Harlan himself was. “C-come back tomorrow. when he'll be ready to deal with you.” 

“Well tell him he can either put me in a holding cell overnight, or he can give me the damned key to my new house, because I've got nowhere to sleep,” Haymitch snaps, sickened by the awareness that he's having to beg for something as benign as this from the people who killed his family. 

They do give him the key in the end, though, brought out in a furtive gesture by the assistant. He doesn't need a guide anyway, because they all know where Victor's Village is. He tries the key in doors until he finds the right one. There is a box of food and supplies from the Capitol already waiting for him there. 

He spends the first month, then the second, then the third in his new home, never going out, mostly in bed, although he avoids sleep, because that is the realm of nightmares. Whenever he sleeps, he dreams of orange and red lava so real he can feel the heat radiating against his skin; of the distant, agonized screams of a child echoing in the woods as a Career's hunting knife twists again and again with fatal precision. And there are newer dreams since he's come home – of being in the arena and looking up in the sky, only to see a perfect image of Alsey being dragged out of her home. Or of a Peacekeeper in the square letting Jackson try on his helmet, and then while Jackson poses proudly with the protective visor over his eyes, the Peacekeeper shoots him through his tiny, eight-year-old throat. When he wakes up with a racing heart, he spends several minutes stroking the ragged fur of Jackson's bear, thinking about how much he hates President Snow. 

He learns to sleep in half-hour bursts. It minimizes the nightmares. He paces the rooms of his house when boredom finally trumps his almost never-ending preference to just lie down and stare at nothing. But pacing these rooms only remind him that this house will never feel like his. He strews his meager belongings all over the floor, but it still feels like he's occupying the home of another person. After the first month, the Capitol starts delivering him monthly allocations of food and money, because he's apparently no longer capable of doing anything like work to earn money anymore. It's true, though. He's not sure who here would hire him now. 

The first the Peacekeepers come with the delivery, Haymitch finds himself staring at the two unfamiliar, uniformed men, a rage building as they load the crates into his kitchen in stacks. 

One of them, a tall, muscular man with close-cropped red hair and fierce pale green eyes, pries open a crate with a crowbar. The other Peacekeeper, equally muscular, but younger, looking bored, shoves a clipboard into Haymitch's face. 

“We're supposed to show you evidence that we've made the delivery, then have you sign this,” he says with military efficiency. 

Haymitch blindly signs the document. He's too busy imagining the young man in front of him shooting Jackson with that same bland expression. “Were you the ones who did it?” he asks in a low growl. 

The young soldier's expression just barely flinches with worry. Haymitch isn't sure whether it's a sign of guilt, or simply a reaction to the growing menace in Haymitch's voice, but he finds he doesn't really care. He wants someone to blame for this; it almost doesn't matter who. He's been holding on to this anger and guilt for a month now, and it feels good just to let it out, to make someone acknowledge that these deaths happened. 

“Sir,” the Peacekeeper presses on, like Haymitch hasn't said anything. “If I can just get your signature on this form, we can be on our way.” 

“Tell me!” Haymitch bellows. “You shot my family and my girl, didn't you?” 

The young man looks at him wide-eyed, but stands his ground. His partner, the one with the fierce eyes, moves in closer to provide his fellow officer with backup. 

“Stand down,” the younger one orders, but Haymitch just stares at the two of them with unabated menace, waiting for a response, until the older man adds, “We will not tell you again, sir.” 

Haymitch is the first one to throw a punch, a hard one that sends the young Peacekeeper reeling back a step or two. Like the snap of a rubber band being held taut and then let go, the entire scene springs into motion. 

“Oh, that's it, you Seam brat,” the older one hisses, and his thin veneer of professionalism shatters like a large plate-glass window in the Justice Hall being smashed in. The man takes a quick step around Haymitch and grabs him from behind. Haymitch's instincts have been well-honed by his Games, and he kicks desperately to stay out of the man's grip, like the Peacekeeper is a Career, about to kill him. But he's fighting a full-grown man his father's size and weight, who quickly takes the advantage of his professional training to place Haymitch in a chokehold that sends Haymitch into a life-and-death panic, as his airway is more and more constricted. Distantly, he feels someone snapping restraint ties tight onto his wrists as he sucks in small, choking breaths that make him light-headed, like his consciousness is being sucked right out of him. 

He fights back viciously with his joined fists, finally managing to land an uppercut on the younger man who cuffed him, recovered from Haymitch's suckerpunch. But then an explosion of pain at the back of his legs sends him flying forward, and he realizes the fierce-eyed Peacekeeper's government-issue steel-toed boots have taken out his legs from under him with a vicious kick that lands Haymitch on his belly, face hurting from hitting the floor with no real way to break his fall. But at least he can breathe again, which he does in loud gasps that beg the universe for life. 

The same Peacekeeper takes out his truncheon and lands some blows that hurt like fuck, but they're not any worse than he's got over the years from his dad, and he knows how to curl into himself on the floor to protect himself. 

“Come on,” the younger one urges. “Let's just get him into custody and get on with our day, all right? I'm not in the mood to watch you beat the shit out of him.” 

“You could help,” the one beating him with the truncheon gives Haymitch one last kick to the ribs. “You little punk!” he shouts down at him. “And to think we were bringing you _food_!” 

With bruises all over his torso and a large welt around his neck, Haymitch is dragged into the Justice Hall. They throw him a little too enthusiastically into a cell and leave, the older one grumbling about having to file a report, which is when the implications of what Haymitch has done finally start to hit him. He's attacked a Peacekeeper. He's resisted arrest. He can't think of the last time someone in the district did that. He's not even sure what the punishment could be. For the first time since his Games, Haymitch is afraid. 

But then it takes a good two hours before anyone shows up outside the bars of his cell. After the first forty-five minutes or so of initial hypervigilance for any sound that might give him a clue to his fate, Haymitch eventually lies down on the cot and gives in to exhaustion. The whole adrenaline rush of the encounter with the Peacekeepers has depleted him, and with all the nightmares and not sleeping, it's not like he had anything in reserve. 

He wakes with a start to the sound of a familiar voice: “You know, we could execute you on the spot.” 

The voice sounds humorless and a bit annoyed at being put out as it continues. 

“I won't though, don't worry. What I probably should do though is have you whipped in the town square.” 

Haymitch whirls himself upright to face Head Peacekeeper Harlan Whitehead, who stands there in full uniform, even with his helmet on, as if he's just come from a Reaping, or perhaps a riot. 

“What do you want?” he scowls. 

“What in the world were you thinking, son?” 

“Don't you dare call me son,” he says between ground teeth, thinking how fucked up it is that Harlan would call him that. But the man just shakes his head with an aura of sad disbelief. 

“Why would you punch a man who was bringing you your victory spoils?” 

As if to answer, Haymitch's fist punches into the stone wall adjoining his cot. It makes his bones ache and his knuckles sting with newly scraped skin, but it's nothing compared to the soreness all over his body. “Why do you think?” he shouts at the top of his lungs, with such force that his body juts forward. “They killed my family!” He knows this most likely isn't specifically true, but it is generally true, and he needs someone to blame. 

There is a long silence as Harlan examines him and seems to be taking everything in. He sighs. 

“Arnold didn't kill your family. Neither did Lorenzo. What made you think that?” The resignation in his voice sounds like he thinks Haymitch is too young to understand the ways of the world, which just makes Haymitch's rage bubble up again. 

“Then who did?” he snarls. “I have a right to know!” 

Harlan cocks his head at him. “What do you want to know that for? So you can go hunt them down and get yourself killed?” He sighs again. “They were just doing their job, son. They didn't have any choice.”

“I said, don't call me that!” Haymitch screams. Harlan swallows visibly, but his obvious guilt is no comfort at all. Haymitch has had enough over the years of Harlan's empty looks of guilt that ultimately did nothing useful to help him or his family.

“Kid, you think it didn't kill me too? I couldn't even stand to be there while they ...” he trails off, unwilling to finish. “Look, nobody was at happy about the execution of an eight-year-old boy and his mother, but the orders came from President Snow himself.”

Haymitch's head falls into his head, feeling the grief wash over him anew. Tears form at the edge of his eyes, but he holds them back, staying as wide-eyed as possible, because fuck if he's going to let Harlan Whitehead see him cry. 

“Look,” Harlan says again after Haymitch hasn't said anything. “I've known you for a lot of years now, and they haven't exactly been happy ones. And what happened to your mom and Jackson was awful; of course it was. Nothing can change it, though. And now you're a victor. You're set for the rest of your life and you should try to enjoy that, instead of giving yourself more pain with some vendetta you can't possibly carry out anyway.” 

The thought of spending the rest of his days in that house, alone, nothing to do, everyone in the district hating him, the ghosts of his Ma and Jackson hanging over him, seems like an unbearable eternity. “What do I have left to enjoy?” he accuses. He watches Harlan try to come up with an answer. 

“You still have your father,” he eventually declares. “You should try and make your peace with him, put together some kind of quiet life for the two of you. You don't have to work now and neither will he. You can provide for him, and maybe without the pressure of having a family to take care of, his rough edges will smooth out. The two of you can find a way to help each other through this. He's gotta be mourning too, you know.” 

“I don't give a fuck about him. What has he ever given me besides a long list of injuries?” 

He finds it satisfying to see Harlan wince at that. “Why didn't you just shoot him back then?” he adds. “I mean, seriously, do you know how much good you could have done our family if you'd gotten rid of him for us?” 

“Don't say that, kid. Nobody really wants their father dead. They just think they do.” 

Haymitch's eyes cast down to the stone floor of the cell. “I'm serious. Do you know I used to look at the gun in your holster when you'd come into the house to check on us? I'd try to figure out if there was any way I could grab it before you had time to react, if I'd have time to shoot that bastard right in the skull before you could stop me.” 

There's total silence. Harlan whistles in amazement. 

“Then I don't know, kid.” he says. “But what I do know is, you've already had a whole lot of hard luck for someone so young. Don't you think at this point, maybe you've earned a little rest instead of trying to cause more trouble?”

Haymitch doesn't look up, feels his fingers start to fidget.

Harlan sighs, and Haymitch hears him fumbling with a ring of keys. He only looks up when he hears the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock to his cell. “Luckily, those Peacekeepers you provoked weren't all that interested in sticking around to make sure you got punished. So we're going to bury their report somewhere in a filing cabinet, and I'm gonna let you go. But you're on warning, got it? 

“Don't do something to make me have to drag you out into the square and have you whipped, because that's the last thing I wanna do, but I will if I have to.” 

The door swings open with a loud creak as he waits for Haymitch to respond. When he doesn't, when he won't even look up, Harlan adds in a weary voice, “Well, get moving, kid, go on home. And stay out of trouble, if only for my sake, okay?” 

Haymitch knows he's supposed to say something, at least nod affirmatively, but he refuses to make this easy for the man and his eyes remain downcast. His shuffling footsteps are the only sound as he walks down the concrete hall and up the stairs into the daylight. 

But after that, he doesn't get out of bed on the days he knows they're scheduled to come. Each time they show up and the insistent knock comes on his door, he lies in bed and pretends not to be home until they leave the boxes in a stack on his porch. Every time this scenario gets played out, he remembers Harlan's threat about having him shot, and he fantasizes about answering the door with an oversized hunting knife waiting in his hand, just like in his Games. He just lies there as they're knocking and thinks about how it might just be all right if one day the Peacekeepers came not to deliver food, but to drag him to the square and shoot him, like his mom, like Jackson, like Alsey. 

He's not exactly sure what stops him from getting up and provoking a Peacekeeper into killing him. But something still does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He's not really alive. But after four months of this, he just doesn't care. He's not sure how he's going to live the rest of his life this way._

By the third month since his return to the district, Haymitch is still keeping to his half-hour sleeping regimen. But by now, all the intermittent sleeping has truly caught up with him, and he feels exhausted all the time. Worst of all, the nightmares don't diminsh with time. 

He finds his body giving in to sleep during the day – on his feet, in a chair, in front of a television he's got blaring in yet another desperate attempt to stay awake a while longer. The nightmares – of his Ma and Jackson being shot, of the ax hurtling straight into the forehead of the girl from District 1 – start weaving their way into his lucid dreams during the day and there is no longer any way to escape. 

He gives in to the inevitable, and decides that if the nightmares are going to haunt him anyway, he has little reason to get up from bed at all. He gets up mostly only to piss or to stuff some packaged snack food from the Capitol into his mouth. He's a victor, so he no longer has any obligations; no job, no family he talks to, no need to remember anything except his Victory Tour and then Reaping Day once a year, for the rest of his life. His life narrows down to just a few tasks – eating, bodily functions, setting alarms, dragging in the previous month's boxes of food before the Peacekeepers can show up with a new one: the last thing he wants to do is give the Peacekeepers cause to break into his house to check that he's still alive. 

He's not really. Alive. But after four months of this, he just doesn't care. He's not sure how he's going to live the rest of his life this way.

One day, when he's rustling through the last dregs of the Capitol boxes for something to eat, a bottle of wine in there catches his eye. For the first time in his life, he's tempted by it. He stands stock-still for a good minute staring at the unopened bottle, holding it at arm's length in front of him in thought. 

_No._ He shoves it back into the box. Definitely not. He never wants to end up like Randall Abernathy. Never. 

But then, one day, when he realizes he's spent the last several days mostly staring at the ceiling, trying with little success to keep his mind completely empty, it occurs to him to wonder: how different is this from being passed out drunk all the time like his father?

He gets up and gets dressed, even though it's already long past dark, and sits in his well-lit house. After dithering over the idea for a half-hour, he gets up and goes digging again through the box. There is a wooden device included in the box with a piece of spiraled metal, and after several minutes of pondering the device, he figures out how to use it to get the bottle open and finds a set of wineglasses he didn't even know were in his kitchen cabinets. 

Having never drank alcohol before, the second glass hits him pretty hard, but he finds himself pleasantly plastered. It doesn't take away the intrusive thoughts that constantly plague him, but it does make them a little more distant, and it's a relief from having to focus constantly on pushing them away. Mostly, it makes him extremely sleepy. 

He stumbles into bed, forgetting to set an alarm to wake him up. He ends up sleeping the whole night. When he wakes up the next day, in the early afternoon, he feels a bit wrung out from having slept too long, but he can think more clearly than in months. 

To his amazement, he doesn't remember having a single dream. 

Repeating the experiment the next night to similar effect, he realizes he has stumbled upon a useful tool. It sure as hell beats waking himself up every half hour and walking around like someone dead. 

He starts drinking a little every evening, just enough to get to a point where he feels thick, but not so dizzy that he can't still toddle across the house and into fall into bed. The rest of the day, he spends trying to push away the invasive thoughts and memories with the television, now not on just to provide noise, but to keep his mind occupied. It's television provided by the Capitol, so it has the same shows Haymitch remembers seeing in the background on the televisions in the Training Center there. This means, of course, one channel of mostly pro-Capitol and pro-Snow documentaries and educational shows, as well as one channel of shows purely about the Games. He studiously avoids both of these. There is also a channel with soap operas and a lot of gossip shows about movie stars and other celebrities in the Capitol. He opts for the this mindless stuff, because it's the least offensive, and he likes how the constant change of topic keeps his mind distracted, even if it is with utter stupidity. After a while, he also discovers that these shows have disturbing yet fascinating glimpses into the lives of other victors.

One night, he watches a gossipy feature on Cooper Brink, a glamorous victor from District Ten. She's being featured for having been photographed on the arm of a different rich and famous person practically every night she's ever been in the Capitol since she won the 42nd.

“What can I say, I just like everybody,” coos the woman in a clip filmed at some movie awards ceremony Haymitch has never heard of, outside a large Capitol building with pink marble pillars. Her long, voluminous black hair cascades over a gold satin gown with hundreds of sequins that glitter in the harsh camera lights, and she's wearing thick, garish makeup that probably cost more money than a family in the Seam will ever see in their lives. Her demeanor is sickeningly artificial, in a way that makes even Lucilla seem restrained. She's so over-the-top, Haymitch has a momentary inkling that she's faking it, or trying too hard, or something like that, although none of those options really make sense. 

“Would you believe, Indira,” the show cuts back to its host, Lucius Marin, skin painted in a yellow pea color with a navy blue wig and makeup almost as heavy as the Victor's. He's talking to his co-host, whom Haymitch has learned is named Indira Wasser. “Would you _believe_ ,” he repeats for dramatic effect, “that Miss Brink has gone on over six hundred known dates since becoming a victor eight and a half years ago?” The man's nauseatingly white teeth flash at Haymitch through the screen. “And that's only counting the ones that have taken place in public,” he says suggestively. 

Indira, her own face, neck and arms made an inhumanly pale white by generous application of shimmering powder, chimes in with a mildly reproachful tone, “Perhaps, Lucius, we've stumbled upon the reason why District Ten has not been known as one of the more highly-achieving districts.” 

“Quite possibly,” Marin agrees, but he wags a finger of protest. “Still, you have to admit, we've seen plenty of victors from Districts One and Two who are quite the social butterflies and yet still manage to bring home their tributes.”

Wasser's ruby-red wig nods vigorously. “A very good point, Lucius. Speaking of the Careers, let's take a look at the little report our new correspondent Rainbow Skye Candy has put together on Dare Jackson, victor of the 41st Hunger Games...” 

On another night, he runs across an orchestral performance, which he almost zaps right by, but then is stopped in his tracks by a violin solo so sad, it's mesmerizing. The violinist is playing to a packed concert hall that is utterly, silently rapt before the beauty he is offering up. As the last note sounds, the crowd rises in thunderous, ecstatic applause. Afterwards, the program mentions briefly that the man in the purple wig is Gang Chen of District Ten, the victor of the 43rd Games. The short biographical text that appears on the screen as he plays mentions that he lives full-time in the Capitol and is a professional violinist with the Capitol Chamber Orchestra. 

How can these victors even live with themselves, he wonders? The Careers from One and Two he at least understands. From what he's seen of them on television and in person, they seem pretty brainwashed to so love the Capitol. But others, people from the outlier districts like his – the Gang Chens and the Cooper Brinks – what would make them want to live their lives around these people who watched them kill other children for their entertainment? How sick is that? These adoring audiences would have been just as happy to watch them die if things had gone differently. 

Did something about being a victor change them? Will it change him too? 

But that's nonsense. It's already changed him, turned him into a bit of a drunk, and a generally useless human being. He shoves away the comparisons to his father as fast he possibly can. 

But he's unwilling to go back to the nightmares and the zombie-like days again. The nights are better now. His days are still difficult, full of waking daydreams of the arena, or his imaginings of the executions of his family, but he refuses to start drinking during the day as well. And besides, during the day, he can mostly will them away with distracting activities. 

He knows for sure things are improving when for the first time in four months, he starts looking for some. Some that don't involve staring at a television screen anyway. 

He begins chopping wood for the decorative fireplace in his home, even though he has electric heat. He sifts through the boxes of food he's been getting and digs a compost pile in the yard for the rotting, perishable items that have been sitting for weeks, thankful that no one from the district comes here and would see all that food so criminally wasted. He saves what he can and actually begins warming things up for something resembling a couple of meals a day. He gradually cleans up his house and gets it functional again.

He decides to try going back into town. 

He tells himself he wants to augment his supplies, but the truth is, the Capitol provides pretty much everything he needs. Really, he's just craving something new to look at, maybe a person or two to make idle chit-chat with, to remind himself that he still exists. He's always been a loner, thanks to the people of the district deciding when Haymitch was too young to understand, that interacting with Randall Abernathy’s family just wasn't worth the hassle of interacting with Randall Abernathy himself and the bitterly jealous way he guarded his family from the world’s prying eyes. But at least before the Games, teachers had to talk to him sometimes. And there were the other students too. Sometimes they'd talk to him. There were the merchants in the Hob where he'd make trades to get things for the family. And of course, there was Alsey, the one he talked to the most and who actually wanted to listen to when he talked back. 

It's been four months since Haymitch has talked to anyone at all. And to his surprise, he realizes he's craving human contact. 

When push comes to shove though, he finds he's a little intimidated at the idea of approaching anyone, remembering how people reacted to his arrival home in the town square. And so he decides the Hob is a logical place to start. No one there ever says no to money, no matter who's holding the coins.

When he gets there the next day, it's the early afternoon, so there are only a few people milling about, mothers with small children making purchases for their families, men out of work, a few schoolchildren out for the day who've been sent with precious coins or with things to barter. At first, no one seems to notice him. 

But it doesn't take long for him to start seeing the shocked, then wary faces. Some people visibly back away, or pull their children closer. Everyone is avoiding him like he's a virus let loose in a hospital ward. 

He scowls and pulls into himself, eager to be done with his errands now. He buys some some cold sausage, venison and a package of rabbit innards from Greasy Sae, a woman about his mom's age, who at least looks her new and richest customer in the eye and manages to say hello.

Next, he makes himself go to Eddard Bolt's tailor shop, over in merchants' alley, an area where Haymitch has almost never shopped. But now he's the richest man in town, and lately since he's been actually getting out of bed and bathing and all, he's realized that he didn't take hardly anything with him when he left his parents' house. The clothes he's wearing today are the ones for the victory celebration that never happened. 

Bolt visibly suppresses the look of surprise on his face when Haymitch walks into his shop, and to Haymitch's relief, is quickly unflappable about taking his cash. As the man's fingers graze over Haymitch's body, taking thorough measurements, the feel of them moving so confidently with the tape at first calls up disturbing sense memories of his Capitol stylists at work. But then the lack of inane chatter his stylists would have made calms that association down and he gives into the absurdly welcome touch of another human being. 

_“Now, Haymitch.” Katherine Abernathy tuts affectionately, as her fingers run a smooth, firm crease, pinning a hem along the front of Haymitch's first Reaping shirt, which she began making after he turned twelve. “I've worked hard on making this shirt, which included dismantling a very nice linen dress that goes all the way back to your great-grandmother's days. You're getting to be old enough to take care of your clothes now, and I intend for this shirt to last long enough to pass down to Jackson, and then maybe even to one of my grandchildren.”_

_Haymitch nods, silently reveling in the way he feels enclosed in her hands when she does this work. It's so rare that she touches him at all anymore in a way that isn't thought out first, looking over her shoulder to see if his father is watching._

_“Honey?” she says as she pulls a sleeve taut and places a pin. Her voice has gone low and serious, like when she's about to give him a lecture._

_“Yeah, Mom?” he replies, surprised and wondering what he's done wrong. He tries to be good so that his mom won't be worried, and his dad won't get mad in the evenings when he comes home from work, covered in coal dust, in a bad mood that only gets worse after he's had some whisky._

_“I've been wanting to talk to you about something, something that should stay just between us, okay? I don't want you to talk about it with your father or with Jackson.”_

_“Okay.” His brother is in his room playing, and his father is at work._

_“Good.” She looks up at him and smiles a bit too broadly. He knows when she smiles like this that she's worried. “It's just that, the other day, you tried to hug me because I'd fixed your toy, and I wouldn't let you. I pushed you away and said you were a man now. Do you remember that?”_

_He looks away. “Yeah,” he says, remembering the shame when he'd forgot himself and tried to thank her for sewing up the frayed stitches on his kickball. His father had snapped at them out of nowhere: “For love of the Capitol, Katherine, he's your son, not a wee girl.”_

_He hadn't even known his father was in the room. His mom had stiffened, then pushed Haymitch away, like an animal flinching from a blow. Haymitch had stiffened too, because he knew that tone was the start of something in his dad that on some days, would build and build, until it exploded into slaps, then maybe punches – to his mother, and sometimes to Haymitch too, especially if he tried to get in the way._

_His father at least spared Jackson, although Haymitch had never been sure why. He just knew his father in the last year had started looking at him differently, seeming to think that everything Haymitch said to him was backtalk or meant that he didn't appreciate enough the hard work his father did every day, that he thought he was “somebody bigger than your old man.”_

_“Your father thinks you've gotten too old for all the mommy stuff,” she tells him now, “and it … it puts him in a bad mood when he sees me hugging you. So I just wanted to remind that we shouldn't do that when he's around, all right? We don't want to upset your father when he's already had a stressful day at work, right?”_

_“Right, mom.”_

_There's something hard in her voice that he knows better than to argue with, an undertone that means this is serious, that none of them have any choice about it. She uses the same tone when she sits him and Jackson down with a glass of milk or some berries she's gathered and tells them that there isn't any dinner that night, because she didn't get enough washing work that week._

_She doesn't say anything for a while. As she finishes constructing the last pleat on his shirt and pins it down for later sewing, Haymitch notices her wipe at her eyes, then quickly steps back to admire her handiwork._

_“I suppose you really are starting to become a man, aren't you?” she says ruefully. “I can't believe you've already turned Reaping age this year ...”_

He stands straight and stiff in the back of the shop as Bolt measures him out for pants now. He looks straight ahead, desperate to keep control of his emotions, an aching burning behind his eyes. Bolt, to his credit, never says anything, never even looks up, even though Haymitch is sure a few of his traitorous tears fall on the man's bald head. 

Bolt has just finished adding up the totals on a small piece of brown paper when the bell tied to the shop door rings and an older woman's voice tinged with surprise says in the doorway, “Mister Abernathy? Haymitch Abernathy?” 

He turns around slowly, vaguely recognizing the voice from his past. “Missus Garvey,” he confirms, not knowing what else to say to his old schoolteacher. He hasn't seen her at all for a year, since his dad signed him out of school and sent him to work in the mines. And it's been a lot longer than that since she was his teacher in sixth grade. 

Bolt discreetly leaves his paperwork on the counter and walks off to another area of the shop, as the woman walks up to Haymitch. When she gets close, he is dismayed to see pity in her eyes. 

“How have you been, young man?” she asks quietly, taking in the sight of him in his overgrown haircut and his rumpled shirt and trousers. The moniker startles him. He doesn't feel anything like a young man anymore. 

“I've been better, Missus Garvey,” he admits, without knowing why. Maybe it's simply because someone's asking him this question for the first time in a long time. Certainly Missus Garvey never asked when he was her student and he came to school with a limp, or with bruises on his cheek – once even with a black eye. 

“I'm very sorry about your family,” she says. “After you graduated, I was moved to second grade. I taught Jackson in my last year. He was a very sweet boy.”

 _Don't cry, don't fucking cry_ , Haymitch chants in his mind, flashing back to memories of walking Jackson to school on his way to work, teasing him about how best to get Missus Garvey all riled up in a hurry.

“Yeah, unlike me,” he remarks, pursing his lips, daring her to even try and sentimentalize his time with her. 

“No, you were not an easy student,” she agrees, pushing a strand of his long, unruly hair out of his face. He jerks at the intimacy of it. What the fuck is she doing, touching him like this? He doesn't want her sympathy or her help, or this pretense that they have a connection. It's far too fucking late for that.

“You weren't particularly studious either,” she continues, letting her hand drop. “You always hid in the back seats whenever you could. I guess you didn't want me to see what your father was doing to you. But you had a clever mind. Your escort picked well with that slogan.” 

His eyes widen into circles of barely controlled rage at her frank admission – that she not only had seen but had understood what was happening to him, and that she had never asked questions, never lifted a finger to intervene. 

“I saw you in the shop window just now, and I wanted to say that I'm sorry about Jackson, and that I'm sorry I never helped you,” she says. “It's just that you never said anything about it. It seemed like you didn't want me to say anything. And I knew if I told the authorities, you and your brother would have ended up in the Community Home; I didn't think that would be any better, you know? But it's always kind of bothered me that I never did anything.” 

He has to make an abrupt, 180-degree turn on his heel, because otherwise, he's sure to shake the very life out of her. 

“I know it doesn't make any difference now,” she continues, ignoring his body language, “and well, you're a victor, so I hope you'll have a good life from now on, but I just wanted you to know that in my way, I was trying to help. If I had seen any evidence of what was happening to you back then on little Jackson ...” 

He slams his money down on the counter, then turns and blows by her, making a beeline for the door. “I'll be back in a week,” he calls out to the tailor in the back of the shop before she can follow him. 

Coming into town had been a mistake. 

He makes himself walk all the way home at a normal pace. But when he gets there, shaking with fury, the first thing he does is look for the open wine bottle in the kitchen. He pops the cork and drinks down as much of the red liquid as he can, as fast as he can. When he finally comes up for air, there is only a small line of the stuff left in the bottle, and his shirt is streaked in red rivulets that remind him of the blood spurting out of Maysilee's neck. 

He wants more wine. Right now. Because his ears are ringing with the sound of screaming – Maysilee's screaming as the birds gouge her throat; his father roaring curses at him in between punches, his mother and Alsey screaming in fear on the steps of the Justice Hall. 

He easily finds and breaks into a new bottle, and drinks most of that down. That's better. Actually it's pretty damn good. Of course, the memories won't go away, no matter how much he drinks; they don't even really hurt less. 

But he discovers into the second bottle, that with enough in him, he just doesn't care about anything. But he's also getting more and more dizzy and his gaze is getting harder to focus, and he can feel himself teetering on the edge of passing out. How did his father ever manage to stay upright and conscious enough like this to beat on his family? 

He wakes up in the morning, sprawled on his bed in his underwear – his pants and shirt somewhere on the floor. His tongue tastes like a thing not born of this world. As he lies there, staring at the ceiling through slitted eyes, he can feel his heartbeat throbbing in every vein of his body. Each noise permeates his skull like someone taking his forehead and squeezing it impossibly tight. Blindly, he pulls himself up, drags himself towards the sink, turns the tap on full blast. He sticks his face under the cold running water, like he's seen his father do, and now he knows why. The blast of cold gives him the ability to see straight and contemplate his surroundings. His tidied-up household looks like someone opened the window and let in a powerful gust of wind – the mystery of his clothes is solved on the floor of his kitchen; the first, second, then third bottles of wine, are drained and toppled over at different forking points throughout the house, like he's been stumbling around everywhere. He should make himself some eggs on the stove, but he's still a bit wobbly, and he doesn't trust his balance or his energy level to complete the job. He settles for some of Greasy Sae's cold sausage, but after a few bites, he realizes he's just not ready for food. 

Alcohol, in a few measured doses, turns out to be the only thing takes away some of the pain. It releases the horrible squeezing sensation in his head, at least, so he can go around picking up the debris of last night. After he's done, he sits at the kitchen table with the empty bottles gathered before him, wondering what the hell to do with himself. Is this going to be his life now? Is he going to drink again when he goes back into town to pick up his clothes? Is he going to drink every time he goes into town? Will it eventually be more and more of this stuff so he can get through the day and to sleep at night? Haymitch remembers vaguely that his father hadn't at first drank during the day. Haymitch's earliest memories are benign ones, of his father sitting in a chair with a bottle of beer in his hand, laughing loudly sometimes at things Haymitch said. It was only later after he lost his job for mouthing off to the foreman one too many times, that he was drinking all day, when he could get his hands on the money for the alcohol. 

He wonders now if his father had had a moment like this once, where he made the conscious decision whether or not to become the drunk that Haymitch knows. He quickly shuts down that line of thinking, shows it no mercy, telling himself he's not going to become a walking cliché. 

The box of Capitol wine bottles get buried deep in a closet where he can't see them. No more wine, he tells himself, not at night, not at all. Then he draws a steaming bath that he gets lost in for almost an hour, scrubbing every last part of his body. He then drains the tub and scrubs it clean, despite the pounding in his head that getting down on his hands and knees provokes. He refills it with water and soap and throws his clothes in from yesterday, as they smell like sweat and drink, a familiar odor that reminds him that his father often smelled like this. 

_You've already beaten the odds, you can beat this too_ , he tells himself. _You've won The Hunger Games. Do something with it you can be proud of_.

 

**

The next day, he wakes up knowing what he wants to do. 

He goes back to the merchant shops again, this time, bringing with him all the cash from the victor payments the Capitol has been giving him along with his food deliveries. Since he hasn't really been going anywhere up until now, it's accumulated into a pile of money he knows would be hard to spend all in the district. But he's determined to make a real dent into it, so he goes into every one of those shops on the merchant's row that he's never been able to afford and starts buying as much as he can carry – meat and eggs from the butcher, vegetables from the greengrocer, and eggs, flour and other staples in the general store.

“I knew you right away,” says Mr. Jones, the grocer, who sells him white flour and sugar, even oatmeal, which Haymitch had never tried before seeing it in the Capitol; he'd instantly fallen in love with it. “You're the most recognizable face in the district now, Mister Abernathy. I'd dare say even more recognizable than Madam Mayor Undersee.” 

He feels a spark of resentment as the man struggles valiantly to make small talk with him, even though they know nothing about each other and have nothing in common. This man would have kicked him out of his store a few months ago. And he certainly wouldn't have called him _Mister Abernathy_ while he did so. 

When he's good and overloaded with bags and hasn't even spent one-quarter of the money in his pocket, he goes to the square, not far off from the merchants' row. He decides to sit by a tree with his bags and wait. There are Peacekeepers off in the distance, but they aren't dressed in full gear, just casual black pants and jackets, no helmets. They look fairly lackadaisical about their duties right now, and besides, he's a victor, who brings the food for a year to his district, so he doesn't see a problem with what he's about to do. 

He waits until he sees a dark-haired Seam mother and her daughter, who can't be more than four years old, walking by together, hand in hand, probably on their way back from the Hob. The mother is carrying a worn, straw basket in her hand filled with what look like old shoes. She either had just traded something for them, or more likely, had brought them to trade and was turned down. They both have the sunken faces of undernourishment. 

“Excuse me, ma'am?” He tries to sound respectful as he approaches her with the bags of food, but she takes a good look at him, then her face turns stricken as she recognizes him. He sees her take a worried glance at the Peacekeepers behind him, then she turns on her heel very deliberately in the other direction. 

“Ma'am?” he tries, but he's too intimidated by her response to go chasing after her. He should have remembered: Seam folk balk at charity. She knew what he was about to do, perhaps. He tries again with a tall man who could be his father's age, but the man doesn't even meet Haymitch's eye. 

It's not a coincidence. Everyone is definitely avoiding him. 

In annoyance, he spots a woman in her sixties, with gray hair and weathered dark skin that looks like brown leather stretched tight over bone. She's wrapped against the cold in a shawl and layers of clothing, and she's obviously infirm and slow. He can at least reach her before she runs off, and besides, she looks like she especially could use the food. 

“Excuse me, ma'am, do you know some people who could use these?” he tries a new tack, hoping she'll take her share and distribute the rest to others. “I don't really need them,” he says. “The Capitol sends me food and money regularly, because I'm a victor now, and I thought I could maybe help people out ...” 

“I know who you are,” the woman cuts him off quickly with a loud whisper. “You're the boy who got his family killed.” She waves a dismissive hand at his bags. “And I know what you're trying to do. It's all very nice, but you might as well take those things home and eat them yourself, because nobody's going to take your food. They're too afraid.” 

He glances at the Peacekeepers, looking as bored as ever and shakes his head in frustration. “Them?” he hisses. “They're not going to _do_ anything! What do they care if I give people food? It's not breaking any laws to give someone food!” 

She makes another dismissive gesture at him. “You don't understand anything,” she grumbles, and turns on her way out of the square. 

“No, it's _you_ who don't understand anything!” he exclaims, but she doesn't look back, and leaves him along the eastern end of the square holding his bags of food and his smashed pride. He feels like an idiot, but he can see she's right. Everyone is getting out of the square as fast as they can. He takes another glance over at the Peacekeepers, but they still seem to have less than zero interest; if only these people could see that. But he can see now that that's never going to happen. Dejected, he heads out of the square himself, back towards home, swearing under his breath. He finds that he's already staging a battle inside his head over the bottles of wine hidden away from himself back home. The temptation to drink this away grows inside him as he trudges down the dirt path. 

After he's been walking for about fifteen minutes or so, he hears the sound of brush being walked upon behind him and to the right. It's light, like someone's trying to spy on him, but he's still got a sensitivity to even the smallest sounds around him that hasn't left him since the arena forced it into him. He whirls around and sees nothing. Surely not Peacekeepers, right? They wouldn't bother hiding.

“Look, whoever you are,” he calls out, “I know you're following me.” 

He doesn't expect it to work. If someone's intending to rob the rich victor, they're not going to be drawn out by his taunts. But he can at least intimidate them a little by letting them know _he_ knows, at least until he's figured out what he can grab to defend himself. He puts the bags down and thinks about his options. He can go hand-to-hand if he must, and probably no one from the Seam has a truly impressive weapon; but he'd feel better with something blunt in his hands, at least. “You might as well come out!” he shouts. 

A girl who's probably fourteen – but her rail-thin face and long pigtails makes her look about ten – walks out of the brush. 

“What the hell are you doing?” His tone is testy and bewildered after his encounters in the square. 

“I was walking home and I saw you up ahead with all those groceries,” she says simply, no fear in her voice as she inspects him more closely. “You're the guy who won the Games this year, right?” 

Haymitch nods. “Whatdo you want?”

“You live in Victor's Village, right?” 

“Yeah, what of it?” 

“Can I see what your house looks like?” 

He blinks back surprise. “Really? Uh, yeah. Sure, I guess.” 

She smiles at him in an open way that vaguely reminds him of Alsey, and he finds himself talking to this girl the way he would talk to Alsey, even though she looks and sounds nothing like her. 

“You know, if you wanted to see it, you could have just asked, instead of skulking around in the bushes,” he pretends to grumble. 

She shrugs. “I thought you'd tell me to go away.” 

His brow furrows with an idea. “Listen, you can see my house on one condition.” 

“Okay?” 

“You take these bags of groceries back home with you when you leave. And you don't tell who gave them to you. Say you found them on the ground, on the edge of the merchant's row.” 

“Why?” Her face screws up with overdone childish confusion. 

“Because that's the deal,” he snaps. “You want to see my house, you take home mystery groceries and share them with your family; that's the deal. Got it?”

Her face brightens, almost like she's going to laugh. “Sure,” she says with an inflection that makes clear she thinks he's maybe not so bright. But he doesn't care what a little girl like her thinks, and besides, his mood has just improved tenfold. 

He sends her home with all of it after she ogles his house for a while. As she leaves, he makes her promise to send another little friend the next afternoon under a similar shroud of secrecy. He finds he doesn't need that bottle of wine this afternoon after all. He waits until nighttime and does his usual routine of a few drinks before bed, but that's it.

The next day, he goes back into town and buys another round of groceries, sending home the next excited Seam kid with the same promise to send yet another kid. They make a chain of fed families and Haymitch knows that eventually the word will get out – some kid will crack, or just get careless and tell his parents – but he hopes by then that the word will have gotten around and people will see that Peacekeepers aren't doing anything about it, and it's okay to let the victor give you food, you won't be killed for it. It pushes him to go into town each day and talk to people, which he figures is a good thing. He becomes an item of gossip. He can deduce this in the way that the little comments of various shopkeepers begin to overlap, like they've been talking to each other about him. The blonde, pale-skinned merchants who in the past, would have viewed his skinny, dark-haired frame in their shops with suspicion, now grace him with a look of eager anticipation. 

Of course, it's still just him and the merchants making awkward small talk, but it's something. It gives him purpose, a dose of normalcy. But after a month, without even a hint of warning, everything changes. 

“I'm sorry, but I'm afraid all my stock is spoken for already to orders,” says Jarvis, the greengrocer, after three weeks of Haymitch coming in every weekday in a row. “I won't be able to sell to you this week. Come back next month, though.” 

Jarvis has never seemed to be able to sell out his entire stock, but at first, Haymitch doesn't think much of it. 

“My deliveries are late,” Darlton tells him at the general store, trying very quickly to busy himself with paperwork of some kind. “Try me in the middle of the month.” 

“But I can see you have flour right over there,” he protests with a finger pointing at a barrel. There's an awkward silence. “Oh,” Darlton recovers, badly. “That flour needs to be thrown out; it's gone bad,” he says without looking up. 

It goes on the same way, with a lot of flimsy excuses and indirect gazes until Mister Boudreau, the butcher, is remarkably blunt about it. 

“They caught on much more quickly this time,” he says.

“What?” Haymitch interjects.

“Ordering Day was two days ago. They charged us all triple the usual price for our supplies,” he explains. “A definite message.”

“The Capitol?” Haymitch asks, bewildered. Boudreau nods. 

“Yeah, nobody's going to sell to you for a few weeks, boy. It's obvious the Capitol wants your little spending spree stopped.” 

“But,” Haymitch sputters. “I'm not doing anything illegal!” 

“Swagger tried this kind of thing in his first year too,” he tells him, “and the Capitol put a stop to it too, but with him, it took a few months before they noticed. They must have been keeping an eye out for it this time.” 

Furious, Haymitch stomps all the way back to his house in Victor's Village and makes an immediate path to his closet, tossing everything out behind him in search of the box he's buried far in the back. He doesn't care. He's going to drink that bottle down as fast as he can, and then he's going to find the next one and … 

He sticks in hand into the darkness and roots around until his hand finds the familiar long, glass neck, and he yanks out the wine bottle. He slams it down on his kitchen table and examines it – the bottle itself is a blue color one never sees in glass here, except in the decorative glass windows in the Justice Hall. The label is white with baroque gold lettering, with idealized images of the vineyard workers who harvested the grapes to make it. Haymitch stares at these images of brown-skinned workers with contented, glazed-over expressions for a long while. 

_This is what you think of us. Contented in our mines, surrounded by coal dust. Contented in our slavery._

Eventually, he picks up the bottle and methodically dashes it outside against a large rock in his yard, until the bottle is nothing but tiny shards of glass and dark red liquid staining the dirt. After staring at it a while, he goes and gets another and does the same thing, then repeats with the entire box of wine. He gets rid of it all, not even saving any for his nighttime ritual. 

That night the nightmares return with a vengeance: Alsey stands in the square, spitting at the Peacekeepers as they shoot her. His mother haunts him an hour later, looking resigned to her fate. He wakes up for what feels like the thousandth time from Jackson's accusing eyes staring across the square at Haymitch, who is forced to stand on the Reaping dais and watch it all. He wakes up with his heart racing, wide-eyed in the dark. 

_Fuck it_ , his brain chants over and over the rest of the night as he lies there, unable to sleep until well into the morning. There's got to be another way. He's survived the terror of the Hunger Games and managed to keep it together, only to be paralyzed ever after by the fear of falling asleep? When is this ever going to go away? He's safe now; why won't his brain process that? 

He goes back into town that day, but not to the merchant shops. Instead he buys himself a hunting knife for an exorbitant price in the Hob, one not unlike the knife he slaughtered the Careers with in his Games, in fact. He starts sleeping with it tucked under his pillow at night. It doesn't help the dreams, but it does make him feel safer when he wakes up in the darkness, his fingers curled around the cold handle. That at least gives his brain enough confidence to give in to the exhaustion and eventually fall asleep, though usually not long before dawn. 

The wine chased away the dreams in a way the knife doesn't, and he's sorely tempted at times to go buy some. But he doesn't trust the way his mind goes to alcohol so immediately whenever something goes wrong in his life; it reminds him of his father too much. 

No, he's gotten rid of the stuff, he tells himself, and _that's that_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Do not discount the power of image, Mister Abernathy. It carves attitudes into people far more deeply than any blade, which is precisely why I am here today in fact – to discuss image.”_

He's chopping more unnecessary wood one day when a Peacekeeper arrives at his house with a carefully folded letter on stiff, white parchment, bearing a gold-leaf stamp that has the straight, hard angles of the Capitol. The stamp is imprinted with the letters “LB”. 

Haymitch swallows hard, knowing already what it says: his Victory Tour begins in a month. 

_Dear Haymitch,_

_I can't believe that already five months have gone by and it is almost time for us to meet  
again. In less than optimal news, I have as yet to be promoted, but the bright spot I am quite looking forward to seeing you again. I've been busy, busy, busy with preparations for the last two weeks! I special-ordered four new wigs. Of course, a District Twelve posting doesn't pay nearly enough to afford that, but I am good at scrimping when I need to, and well, you don't see a District Twelve victor every day, now do you? _

_Anyway, I'm writing you now to remind you to get any of your affairs in order, because you'll be gone for at least a month and a half, perhaps two if you are as popular in some of the Districts as I believe you will be; and then of course, there's the finale in the Capitol, where you'll be attending parties and getting some advance information on mentoring. Don't worry about clothes and makeup; your stylist and prep team will be coming too and you know they'll get you back up to Capitol standards in no time._

_Say hello to your family for me, and tell your mother I would love to pump her for some more information about you before we leave; I didn't really get a chance on Reaping Day (the Reapings always move so fast), and the more I know about you, the more it can only help with my publicity efforts._

_Ta-ta!  
Lucilla_

That night, he goes back into the Hob, looking for the men he knows will have cards and as much as he hates to admit it to himself, liquor. He brings with him plenty of money; so it doesn't take him long to be sitting at a table in in the back of the marketplace in his pristine wool trench coat with a hand of cards and a shot of home-brewed whisky in front of him. The talk is small and sporadic, as the talk among people who are concentrating on card games for money tends to be, but it includes joking and banter, and it includes him sometimes; it's the closest thing Haymitch has had to innocuous conversation in months. 

To his surprise, he leaves the shot glass untouched, but returns the next night to the games, hungry to take risks where the consequences mean little to him. In fact, he finds that the more money he loses at these games, the more teasing and camaraderie is directed his way. He becomes the amusing, clever kid among the inveterate old gamblers who laugh at his sarcasm and his cocky bets. He's the easy mark for the middle-aged hustlers who make book at the Reapings, and then during the rest of the year, glean an  
easy buck wherever they can. 

Every minute he's there – for three straight weeks – is a minute he's not obsessed with thoughts of the upcoming Victory Tour or memories of the arena. Alsey's face doesn't contort with the pain when he's hoping for exactly the right card. When he's surrounded by the laughter and backslapping of old men, he's not remembering his mother telling him how his father never means to hit them, he's just in pain. 

He always stays late into the night, because he never worries about running out of money, and as a bonus, the nightmares decrease some, now that he's stumbling into bed completely exhausted, without liquor even. 

The last night before Lucilla is expected to arrive, Haymitch loses all his stakes in a spectacularly long night of ribald jokes, good-natured rivalries and some serious betting wars. Why not, he figures? 

Tomorrow he'll be on a train filled with more food than he could eat in a year and all manner of finery will be provided to him free of charge. He walks home in the pitch black of a cloudy night, whistling pleasantly to himself. He stops dead though, at the sight of his house. 

He knows he didn't leave the lights on. 

He feels around for a substantial rock on the ground, suspecting one of the many criminals he's been socializing with lately. Someone must have figured out by now that it would be easier to relieve him of his money all at once instead of little by little at cards. He finds he's strangely looking forward to a fight. He gets a tiny adrenaline rush and feels for a moment like he's back in the arena. 

But when he walks inside and sees the man with the paper-white hair sitting in the most comfortable chair in his living room, the rock falls from his hand and tumbles loudly on the wood floor. 

“Mister Abernathy.” President Snow's voice is calm, deliberate and with just a touch of the Capitol accent. It's not like Lucilla's, though. On him, it doesn't sound frivolous at all. 

“Won't you have a seat? I'd like to talk.” 

When Haymitch can move again, he walks slowly towards the President of Panem, hands in fists at his sides. When he's about three feet away from the chair, he takes the running leap for Snow's throat he's been planning for months in his head. He doesn't even worry anymore about the consequences. What does he have left to live for? 

So he feels surprised and confused, and cheated when the very air slams right into his face, and his ears fill with an ever-so-slight hum. There is debilitating pain all over his body. Snow doesn't have a mark on him, though, because Haymitch never even got close enough to touch him.

“Forgive me,” Snow apologizes, as calm and quiet as ever. “I have a weakness for irony.” 

Haymitch stands there in bewilderment, gingerly touching his aching nose. While he contemplates the possibility that it's broken, he realizes what has happened: Snow has himself surrounded with a force field, like the one that protected the walls of the arena. Except this one doesn't allow things to enter and bounce back. 

This one is like running into a flat, unyielding wall. 

“Was the setting too high?” Snow asks, shaking his head, as if full of concern. “Regrettable. But I wouldn't worry. A visible bruise or two is always a good image for a victor. Makes you look like a fighter.” 

“You killed my mother and my brother and Alsey!” Haymitch snarls in disbelief at him. He wants to try to smash through that force field, but he knows it will be no use. “And you're talking to me about my image?”

“Do not discount the power of image, Mister Abernathy. It carves attitudes into people far more deeply than any blade, which is precisely why I am here today in fact – to discuss image.” 

His words are delivered with an air of tedium, as if he's Haymitch's father – a refined, intelligent version of his father, that is – who's tired and a bit annoyed to be explaining the basics of the world for the umpteenth time. 

“Why are you doing this?” Haymitch wants to rail at him, but the words come out more like begging. “I know you killed them all to punish me, why? What did I do that was so terrible?” 

Snow raises an eyebrow.

“What? Just because I found out how your damn game worked? Even Cantebury didn't care!” 

There is another long silence. 

“Artemis Cantebury is a skilled Gamesmaker, one of the most skilled we've had in years,” Snow observes. “The Games arena is where his strengths lie. Luckily, I do not need Artemis in the arena of politics, where he would have perished on Day One.” He cocks his head. “You disappoint me, young man. I must admit. I thought you skilled at seeing the bigger picture.” 

The man is as unruffled as he is at the Games, or on television appearances. It's enraging. Haymitch picks up the rock that he dropped earlier, even though they both know it will not do any good, and Snow does not even flinch as Haymitch draws his arm back, roaring, and throws it as hard as he can against the force field anyway. 

There is a loud disturbance in the hum, a loud, rippling sound, and the rock sits impotently on the floor in between them. 

“Trying to join your family, are you?” Snow taunts, hands coming together in slow motion, fingers pressing themselves into a thoughtful steeple under his chin. “But we both know that you're not really the type for suicide; if you were, you wouldn't have won.” 

Haymitch blinks a moment, then sinks into a chair opposite Snow. “I wasn't trying to make you mad, you know. Why would I do that?” He sighs deeply. “All I wanted was to get home.” 

“Haymitch,” Snow says softly, again with that infuriating evenness. “We are going to be old friends for many years to come. I would hope that we didn't start out this relationship with lying.”

Haymitch stares at him, bewildered. “What are you talking about? I'm not lying.” 

Snow shakes his head. “But you are,” he says, like it wounds him. A surreal part of Haymitch's brain wonders if Snow subjects his monstrous daughter to this kind of flat, emotionless lecturing. 

“In the arena, you weren't just trying to get home, Mister Abernathy. You had something else much more rebellious in mind.” 

“And what's that?” he snaps. 

“You wanted to beat the Games.” 

“So? That's how I was going to get home.” 

Snow shakes his head, this time, seeming oddly genuine in his desire to explain. “Ordinary players want to beat the other players in the arena. But what you did has implications far beyond the arena, dangerous implications.” 

“Then why didn't you just tell me to stop? Why go and kill all these people I care about? I would have done whatever you wanted.”

“You _are_ doing whatever I want,” Snow reminds him. 

Haymitch stops short at the truth of that. 

Snow holds up an admonishing finger. “This isn't just about you anymore. The seeds of rebellion are sown when the ruling authority is made to look foolish or weak. By using your government’s creation against itself, you have accomplished the former. Because I must keep you alive, you have also managed the latter. But your insidious seeds will not be allowed to bloom. You are going to behave on this tour, and you are not going to draw attention to your _clever_ antics in the arena. No one will ask you about it and you will not offer, is that clear?” 

Haymitch slouches in the chair even further. 

“Alsey, my Ma, Jackson,” he insists. “They had nothing to do with this. Why take your revenge on them?” His hands grip the arms of the chair he's sitting in until his knuckles turn white with tension. “They were the least rebellious people on the planet!” 

Again, Snow's eyes narrow with disappointment. “Revenge?” he says with mild annoyance, as if he is offended by the choice of words, by Haymitch's denseness. “I've already told you, this isn't about you.” He shakes his head back and forth in slow movements. “This is about the fabric of our nation. The sooner you understand that, the smoother this will go.” 

He sits back in his chair, looking Haymitch over like a lion considering its prey. “Your loved ones are dead because the people in this district, the other victors, they all need to see the consequences for the kind of thinking you displayed in the Games.”

“And what about in the Capitol?” Haymitch realizes suddenly. “Do they know that you killed the family of this year's victor?”

“Ah, that is a more subtle business,” he concedes. “You will especially not bring that up anywhere outside of District 12, by the way, or there will be more consequences, do you understand? The Capitol will find out in the way I deem most effective.” 

Haymitch briefly wonders what that means. “So I keep quiet, or else what?” he challenges. 

Instead of answering, Snow takes quiet assessment of him, sending a chill through Haymitch's body that is more unnerving than any verbal threats.

“You need me as mentor next year,” he insists, trying to keep the growing unease out of his voice. “They will notice if I am not there, the victor who saw through the game.” 

Eventually, Snow nods, but it doesn't seem nearly enough like a concession for Haymitch's comfort. 

“What else can you do to me?” he insists, worried that right now, Snow is right: he isn't able to see the bigger picture. There is a slight tremor in Haymitch's hands and he gives in to the compulsion to fill Snow's deliberate silences. “You've already killed everyone who means anything to me.” 

“I am not so sure that that is true.” Snow raises an eyebrow. “You still have a father.” 

At that, Haymitch laughs long and hard, more than is natural, in order to cover his sense of relief. “Go ahead,” he taunts. “He's a drunk who liked to hit me and my mother and who knows when he would have started in on my little brother too if you hadn't killed him. Notice how my father's not living here with me? There's plenty of reason for that.” When Snow doesn't respond, Haymitch adds self-consciously, “Seriously, you'd be doing me a favor.” 

For the first time since Haymitch has ever met the President, the smile that blooms on Snow's face reaches all the way to his eyes. He seems genuinely pleased at something, like he's just gotten exactly what he wants for his birthday. 

“I will keep that in mind, Mister Abernathy.” 

The buzzing hum all around Snow flashes off and a couple of Peacekeepers materialize to escort him out. 

“Oh, and by the way,” Snow says in parting. “Stop trying to play havoc with the local economy here. You won't be doing them any good in the long run, trust me. 

He rises out of his chair with a formal dignity. “And watch the gambling,” he adds. “There's nothing more pathetic than a penniless victor.” 

It shouldn't, given all the surveillance he lives under every day. But it amazes Haymitch to imagine President Snow sitting in his office with a viewscreen watching Haymitch buy food and play cards. “You seriously need to find better hobbies,” he snarls at him before he thinks better of it. 

Snow chuckles with an air of indulgence, but his words come at Haymitch like the lash of a whip. “And so do you. I don't think you want any more blood on your hands, do you?” 

Haymitch swallows hard.

“It's all your choice,” says Snow as he walks out the door. “It always has been.” 

 

**

The next day, still shaken and feeling a mild sense of dread, Haymitch meets Lucilla's train. 

The afternoon sun is an orange ball already starting to disappear under the horizon when the gleaming silver high-speed Capitol vehicle glides almost noiselessly to a stop in shabby District Twelve, and the only occupants are the woman herself – who arrives in a flurry of excitement, babbling, and an ever-changing parade of clothes and wigs – and the District Twelve prep team, who respond to him in a sort of chaotic unison with loud, dismayed cries of chagrin. 

“Oh, for the love of the Capitol, Haymitch!” shrieks Lenta, his head stylist, in a tone so piercing, it turns the heads of the few Twelve residents running the station for this occasion. “How on earth did you even grow your hair out that long in six months?” 

Haymitch just stops himself from cringing visibly with embarrassment. Lenta doesn't seem to notice as she reaches out and pulls at his hair, her fingers probing the texture of it like a buyer in the Hob checking a vegetable for rot. 

“All that work,” sighs Preen next to her, a candy-colored wisp of a young woman only a few years older than Haymitch. “All for nothing.” 

“Oh, nonsense.” Lucilla pats Lenta's shoulder reassuringly. “You worked miracles on him six months ago, you can do it again, right? I’m sure those wild curls of his are already shuddering at the sight of you, love.” But for the first time since his prep team styled him last year for his Games, Haymitch notices Lucillla gazing at his appearance again with a very Capitolesque look of snobbish distaste. 

“Besides ...” Her pitch shoots up two octaves, and she devolves into childish singsong tones: “...we brought _wardrobe_!” She gestures towards the train. “We've converted a whole car into your dressing room, Haymitch. That's how much there is. You'll have plenty to choose from on each stop.” 

He can't help gaping at her, then at the car. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the people in the station pretending not to watch them, as their expressions narrow into disdain. 

“There's a car waiting,” he says quickly. “It'll take us to the Justice Hall.” 

 

**

The first stop on his Victory Tour is District Eleven, where he is thrust upon a stage with Chaff – a dark-skinned, dark-haired victor from five years before. Haymitch notices that he still has the toned muscular arms and broad shoulders of a man who works the land, even though Haymitch is sure that Chaff hasn't had to touch a plow since he came home a victor. Siting next to him on stage, Haymitch finds himself staring at the strength of Chaff's body, feeling underfed and inadequate every time he does, despite six months of more than enough food to eat from the Capitol. 

For almost an hour, he and Chaff are forced to make small talk with a pink-haired journalist whose name he will forget the minute he walks off over lots of jump cuts and dramatic soundtracks - highlights of the most memorable moments of each of their Games. She compares and contrasts their fighting techniques and strategies while a sullen audience stands by watching. 

It's clear that the journalist is only thinking about how far this interview is getting her up the career ladder. She's too busy flashing him and Chaff sympathetic nods and meaningful winks - _it's all just fun and games for you two now that your Games are over, eh, boys?_ \- to notice how passively angry the audience is acting. Haymitch tries to warm up to the task before him, remembering Snow's visit, and he tries to include Chaff in his answers, giving him openings to chime in. But Chaff gives him absolutely nothing and focuses on the journalist the entire time, like Haymitch is a piece of rotting meat whose smell he can't stand but must bear. 

Chaff's behavior is a bit of a mystery until the journalist plays a clip of one of Haymitch's kills and suddenly it all makes sense – Chaff's cool distance, the angry expressions and pin-drop silences of the audience: Haymitch was personally responsible for killing off this district's male tribute. He had been nameless to Haymitch at the time; he'd kept them all nameless in his head as much as possible, needing them to just be faces attached to statistics so he could murder them. 

“It was a clean kill,” the journalist praises Haymitch's form, as if it had nothing to do with killing another human being at all. “I bet he never even knew what hit him.” 

Haymitch sits there speechless, more aware than ever before of how callous the Capitol journalists are. He's watched them on television for years, but it's different up here on the dais, when it was _his_ kill. Is she trying to win him points with the audience? Is she following a directive to throw the power of the Games into all their faces? Or maybe she's just trying to somehow score points back home with her bosses. 

From then on, his face falls into a permanent scowl, and he focuses his gaze mostly on Chaff's stump of a hand. He spends the rest of the interview imagining how much he'd like to face President Snow in the arena. 

The Victory Tour dinner is held, as they usually are, in the Justice Hall's banquet room. Of course, only the elite of District Eleven are invited – Chaff's relatives, the Head Peacekeeper, and various agricultural overseers. It becomes quickly clear from their demeanor and skin color, that everyone in power here, with the exception of Chaff, is not from Eleven. 

Also strange is the fact that none of the other victors from Eleven are here. Haymitch knows there are more: he's seen them on television. Usually, almost all a district's victors make an appearance at the Tour festivities, except sometimes in the Career districts, where they have so many victors, they seem to rotate out each year. Haymitch and Chaff sit next to each other at a palatial marble table filled with food, pointedly avoiding looking or talking to each other. 

Haymitch is surprised to see that District 11’s mayor is also not from here. He’s pale, mostly bald, and thinner than he would have expected from someone who runs anything important. He shakes Haymitch's hand with a weak grip and makes tedious small talk with him for a while about not much of anything, until Chaff interrupts: 

“Mayor Blomfeld, I think your wife is over there looking for you.” 

The mayor's eyes have dark lines underneath them, like he hasn't been sleeping well, or is sick. He looks across the room to where Chaff is gesturing and smiles at the tall, athletic woman waving him over. She looks a lot healthier than her husband.

“So she is,” Blomfeld agrees. “Thanks, Chaff. See you later, boys.” 

Haymitch watches him go, wondering. 

“Is he ...” he begins. 

“Cancer,” Chaff answers the question before Haymitch can ask it. His answer is flat, unemotional.

“What kind?” he asks immediately. District Twelve's miners are no strangers to lung cancer.

Chaff shrugs. “Who cares? It’s all over his body now. All those years in the fields as a Peacekeeper, then as an overseer, before he got jumped up all the way to mayor. From the stuff they spray on the fruit to keep the bugs off.” 

There is a scowl etched onto his face, weather-beaten from having spent every day of his childhood working the fields. Haymitch takes one last look back at the Mayor, his figure slightly hunched as he talks to his wife. She puts a concerned hand on his shoulder. 

“So he’s from District Two?” 

Chaff nods. 

“Why isn’t someone from Eleven the mayor?” he asks, thinking of Mayor Undersee back home, who inherited the job from her father. 

“Why do you think?” Chaff snarls, like he thinks Haymitch is really stupid. Nor does he elaborate. 

“That man used to shove his workers, grown men, to the ground simply for not working fast enough,” he remarks after Haymitch says nothing for several seconds. “He liked the whip plenty, too. Honestly, I can’t think of anyone more deserving.” 

Haymitch’s eyes widen. Even though Chaff muttered that last part pretty quietly, there are dozens of microphones and cameras here. If any of them picked him up …

His alarmed expression apparently gets Chaff’s attention: he guffaws raucously, acting as if Haymitch just told him a hilarious dirty joke. 

“You don't look so clever, Haymitch,” he snorts. “Don't you know by now? They just edit out what they don't want to see or hear.” 

Haymitch’s fingers run through his hair in a nervous gesture, and the stiff, glossy and straightened feel of it startles him as soon as he touches it. His prep team tamed the curls right out of him for tonight’s appearance, and the reminder makes him ponder on his team a moment: they certainly seem to just blot out anything they don’t want to hear, don’t they? 

His tongue wets his lips. If what Chaff is saying is true, then right now is maybe the best time and place to do this. 

“Chaff,” he begins, watching the man whose eyes are now gazing into the crowd, unfocused. But there is no reply. 

“Uh,” he tries again, after an awkward moment of silence has passed. His fist clenches under the table in his lap. “I …” he tries, then falters. “Listen, I want you to know … I didn’t … like it.” 

Silence. 

Chaff’s gaze doesn’t waver, still directed towards the people clustered in corners of the dining hall. At this point, Haymitch isn’t sure if he’d prefer Chaff to meet his eyes or not. 

“I didn’t like killing him,” he elaborates, when Chaff still hasn’t said anything. “Your tribute. I didn’t want to. I mean, I did want to live, but I …” 

His head turns swiftly towards Haymitch, the muscles in his face tight with anger ready to explode. 

“What?” The word comes out in a mixture of horror and accusation as Chaff stares at him. “ _Did_ you enjoy it? Seriously, kid. Why would you even _bring up_ an idea like that?” 

He only backs off when he sees the pain streak across Haymitch’s face. He closes his eyes, shaking his head, as if exhausted or perhaps frustrated. 

“Look, kid, I …” He sighs and looks away again. “To be honest, I _really_ can’t be seen talking to you right now.” 

Haymitch swallows hard. Just as he suspected. It’s one thing to be forced to make small talk with Haymitch for hours on camera. It’s an entirely different thing for the district residents to see him on television chitchatting with Haymitch willingly, as if he and Haymitch are friends, as if the death of their children is nothing but play. And here Haymitch is, selfishly demanding absolution from Chaff, like it’s the only thing that matters. 

“Yeah,” he grunts finally. “I figured that. I just … it’s just that …” His voice trails off, unable to articulate. “Listen, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. That’s all.” 

“Fucking victory tours,” Chaff growls, keeping his eyes away from Haymitch. He propels himself out of his chair, nearly kicking it backward in his haste. “I need a drink.” 

And he’s up and gone before Haymitch can react, in long, angry strides towards the bar. He throws himself onto a stool and leans in to catch the bartender’s attention as fast as he can. The bartender cocks his head a moment, seeming to be in doubt as he responds to Chaff, who reacts by jerking back in his seat with a scowl. The bartender looks paralyzed with indecision for a moment, then spins around on his heel and grabs a liquor bottle on a shelf behind him, pouring it into a glass that he hands Chaff with a resigned air. The entire contents are gone in an instant, and Chaff slams down the glass onto the bar, gesturing with his fingers to demand another. 

Haymitch exhales unhappily. There’s just no way Chaff is not going to hate Haymitch for a good long time. _And of course our consoles are going to be right next to each other, every damn year,_ he thinks. 

“Mister Abernathy?” 

A halting baritone sounds behind him, and he wishes he could just refuse to turn around. He doesn’t want to give any more autographs, accept any more congratulations, do any more of this bullshit that he already found humiliating in Twelve. He keeps staring at Chaff, who is now hunched over his glass at the bar, as if to protect it – or perhaps himself – from something. 

“Haymitch?” the voice repeats. 

When he finally gives in and turns around, he sees two men standing there, as dark-skinned as Chaff and everyone else in this district who isn’t Capitol. One of them even has a similar build to Chaff, and the same kind of rounded face, while the other man is of slimmer, taller build. Both are wearing formal suits, but as he looks closer, he can see how the suits look somehow ill-fitting, despite them having been tailored to their bodies. It’s as if they don’t know quite how to wear them; all the folds and pleats are in just slightly the wrong places. 

The one with the round face abruptly thrusts his hand out at Haymitch. “I'm Flax.” His words sound rushed, as if he had to blurt them out to get them out at all. “We wanted to meet you,” he says, his voice clipped. “We wanted to talk to you, about our son.” 

Haymitch’s eyes narrow in silent confusion. Their son? Then he notices that the skinny, tall one has his hand resting on one of the round-faced man’s broad, muscular shoulders, and it hits him that they are not brothers, or friends. They are a … couple. 

He’s heard of this sort of thing before, occasionally in derisive, muttered remarks about the Capitolites they see on the viewscreens back home during the Games. During the recaps of the Hunger Games festivities going on in the Capitol, which they tend to show during the Games’ lulls as a way to keep things interesting, it’s not uncommon to see two men together, or a woman with a woman at the victory banquets in Snow’s mansion. Sometimes it’s even the case with big celebrities. Everybody back home acts like that sort of relationship is an unnatural Capitol thing, and therefore not to be trusted or talked about really. Certainly, he’s never seen two men in Twelve being together like this. No one would dare. 

But these two, he thinks, there’s nothing Capitol about them. 

“What do you want?” Lucilla wouldn’t approve of his tone with them, but he’s still a bit too lost in his own thoughts to phrase it more politely, and besides, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, he thinks. 

But then just as the man opens his mouth to speak again, the meaning behind the man’s words sink in and a rising panic sets in. 

_Our son._

_Oh, shit._

_Their son was the District Eleven male tribute. I killed him._

"We want to tell you all about our son,” the man repeats. “His name was Orlando. He was the male tribute this year.” 

Haymitch mutters a curse under his breath. _So that’s his name._ They hadn’t said it once during the interview today. 

“I don’t …” he begins, gruff with awkward guilt. “I wish I knew what to say to you.” The only thing he’s tried so far to say about provoked an ugly reaction in Chaff. The thought of causing that kind of anger in a tribute’s grieving parents is too awful to imagine. 

Flax’s husband still has his hand on Flax’s shoulder. Haymitch's gaze jerks away at the intimate gesture between the two men, feeling awkward, like he's staring. 

“Haymich, you don’t have to say anything,” the man says. “That wasn’t the point of this. We hold no grudges towards you. We know that if Orlando had gotten the right chance, things could have easily wound up reversed.” 

“We just wanted to …” Flax picks up the thread of his husband's words. “...well, _I_ wanted to …” he corrects, but then he doesn’t seem able to finish. 

“Flax, we came to this decision together, remember?” the other man corrects with an encouraging air. 

“Of course, of course,” Flax hurries to acknowledge, then addresses Haymitch again. “You see, we held a lot of anger for the first few months. At you, at the Games, for taking away Orlando …” 

Haymitch is startled by the frank admission into meeting their gazes again for a moment. 

“Careful,” he murmurs, hoping his voice is low enough. “There are about a million microphones in this room.” He knows Chaff thinks they just edit out the unacceptable bits, but Snow had killed everyone he loved for something far less direct than this. 

Flax purses his lips with distaste. “Haymitch, they took our _only son_. What can they do to us anymore? Our little boy, whom we’ve had since he was just one day old.” Flax turns to his husband and pulls him close into an embrace seeking comfort. The gesture is so flustering to see between two men that Haymitch's gaze drops again, in confusion and embarrassment. 

“Would you please look me in the eye when I’m talking to you about this, young man?” he demands. “I know this isn’t your fault; but I think I deserve that much.” 

Gaze flying up, Haymitch can feel his own face settling into a default scowl he wishes wasn’t there, but it’s already too late to change that. 

“Look, I didn’t know your son,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I never even talked to him. I didn’t talk to anyone besides my district partner. I certainly didn’t want to …” 

He realizes he can’t make himself say the words to finish that sentence. He can’t say, _I didn’t want to kill him_ , not to them. 

Yet anything else he could say just sounds hollow and false. 

"I just wanted to come home,” he finishes, feeling depleted. “That’s all I wanted.” 

The words remind him of the conversation with Snow, and he stands there, hands in fists at his sides, hating his life. 

Flax nods, a tight smile on his face, eyes shining with tears he’s holding back as he utters a short, sharp noise of emotion. 

“Of course you did,” he says, his voice thick. “That’s all Orlando wanted too.” 

Before he knows what’s happening, the man catches him in a bone-crunching embrace that makes him freeze with surprise and confusion. He can hear the man’s breaths, heavy with emotion, in his ear. “Thank you, son, for telling me that. You have our forgiveness, all right?” he whispers. “That’s what we came here for. To forgive you." 

_Why_? he asks inwardly, but he stands there in the embrace, feeling awkward and wholly undeserving. 

_"Thirteen’s smoking ashes_ , Flax, what the fuck are you doing here? I told you specifically _not_ to do this.” 

Chaff’s angry voice breaks up the moment, his words rapidly advancing towards them as Flax lets Haymitch go. 

"This isn’t your decision, Brother,” Flax says firmly. “So you can just stay out of it. This is about me and Melio and our grief, not what you want.” 

Chaff swears some more. He’s standing next to Haymitch, a half-filled glass sloshing drops of liquor onto his hand as he gestures at Flax. He never once looks at Haymitch. “I told you to stay away from him.” 

“Oh, and because you’re the big bad Victor, now you get to control how your big brother mourns?” Flax's husband Melio jumps in, his eyes having turned into narrow slits that are beading on Chaff. “Do not presume to tell us how to grieve our child,” he orders, words clipped with deadly precision. 

Haymitch’s head whirls around to gaze at Chaff, then back at Flax. They are _brothers_? 

“It’s all right, Melio,” Flax reassures him with a calming hand on his arm; but his anger hasn’t diminished either. “He can try to order me around all he wants,” he says with bitter imperiousness. “I’ve already done what I came to do.” 

“He was my nephew, you know,” Chaff retorts, his undertone just as bitter. “I’m mourning him too.” 

Suddenly, Chaff’s behavior during the interview, his sullenness towards Haymitch, the way his eyes had darted back and forth with restless anger every time they were near each other, makes complete, horrible sense. 

No wonder Chaff hasn’t even given him a chance to apologize. 

"Oh, sure,” Flax’s sarcasm is spread thick with disdain. “Mourning your way down to the bottom of the next bottle of whisky, are you? Heartfelt. That strategy should bring home the Victors next year, eh?” 

Haymitch watches as Chaff stiffens. “Fuck you, Flax. I tried everything I could possibly do to bring that boy home, and you know it.” His voice is low and filled with fury. “Everything I could fucking think of. You’ve got no right to speak to me that way.” 

"Fine,” Flax snaps back at him. “You’ve chosen your way to grieve.” He gestures at the drink still in Chaff’s good hand. “So leave us in peace to choose ours. We don’t need you here, trying to manage everything as usual.” 

Chaff glares at his brother, then takes another defiant gulp out of his glass. “And I don’t need to listen to this crap,” he says, heading back toward the bar, slamming his glass down. He makes several agitated gestures to the bartender, clearly demanding more alcohol. When he gets it, he hunches back down again over his glass, drinking with a stony face. Haymitch ends up watching him drink all night, unable to say anything to him, unable to shake off the growing unease that he is looking at a vision of his future. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In District 5, Haymitch's past comes back to haunt him, and he receives support from the last place he expected.

During the train ride to District Ten, he attempts a mental tally of the people he personally killed in combat and which district they came from, trying to get an idea of what kind of hell to expect on the rest of this trip. The deaths are all too memorable, but the names and districts are not. This disturbs him, makes him feel too Capitol. 

But it also makes him think of Lucilla, and then an idea. 

He asks her if she has a list of the tributes for whose deaths he was credited. He knows she would also have actual footage of the kills, but he doesn't need more fodder for his mind to play with. She complies, making pleased noises about him showing some enthusiasm for once. The carefully-typewritten list fastidiously tells him the name of each tribute he killed, the district, and gruesomely, the weapon used to kill them, as well as their manner of death: _Seamus Walsh, District Four, hunting knife, exsanguination. Orlando Miller, District Eleven, rock, cranial trauma._. 

It's an overnight train ride. Despite the smooth, silent journey, he sleeps fitfully. His attempts at reckoning have brought back the nightmares with a vengeance, and he wakes repeatedly with choked-off gasps, from images he finally remembers of all the other tributes he killed or saw killed in the arena. He first wakes up from a nightmare of the arrow tearing through the neck of the girl from District Eight, whose name he finally remembers in a flash was Marina. He wakes up a second time, clutching his familiar knife under his pillow, to the fading image of yanking a different knife out of Seamus Walsh, a knife that now sits in the Games Museum in the Capitol. 

More than once, he considers getting up and going to the dining car where he knows the sideboard will be stocked with more liquors than he can name, but after one of the dreams features his father attacking his mother with a knife Haymitch recognizes as the one he used in the arena, he is more resolute than ever not to succumb.

But after the third nightmare in a row, he refuses to go back to sleep, and just lies there in the darkness with a residual feeling of terror at nothing in particular, feeling his heartbeat, loud and pounding in his ears. It competes with the hum of the high-speed train gliding along its tracks, and he wonders how the hell he's going to make through ten more of these things. 

With each city, he stays quieter and quieter, giving as little as he can, saying next to nothing if he's in a District where he's killed a tribute. As they get through each round of interviews in each district – Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, he notices the journalists getting younger or sometimes older, but in each case, quite obviously less prestigious, to the point where Lucilla corners him in his room in the District Six Justice Hall after his interview, wagging her gold-painted fingernails at him in frustration. 

“I don't know what you think you're accomplishing with this gloom and doom act,” she complains. “I actually got a call about you this evening from the focus groups team!” 

“Oh?” Haymitch barely raises one eyebrow, to show how little he could care about what the Capitol citizenry has to say on the matter. His mood isn't being helped by all the nightmares he keeps having. 

“Yes, I did!” Lucilla insists on her angry righteousness. “They are concerned that you're not being outgoing enough. The focus groups are saying you don’t engage enough with the journalists, that you frown too much. People in the Capitol are actually tuning out; that almost never happens with the Victory Tour specials. They are practically guaranteed ratings killers!”

When he merely scowls at her, she adjusts her purple wig obsessively, even though every inch of her is a perfectly groomed portrait of Capitol fashion. “Whatever happened to the cocky young man I saw with Caesar Flickerman?” she tries in despair. “He at least had a roguish charm.” 

“I guess he grew up and killed some children,” he growls at her. 

“It's a game!” she retorts. “That's how the game works! And look at you! Repaid for your great risk and clever cunning with unending glory in the annals of the Capitol, and money to last a lifetime! Surely you see how much better off your life is since the Hunger Games.” 

Haymitch is surprised into a good long stare of disbelief. “You don't think of us as real people at all, do you?” he shouts.

It surprises him even more when she is left bereft by his unfiltered remark. “How dare you say such a thing to me, Haymitch Abernathy? Of course you're real people, with lives and stories and families back home! You think we forget that? Why do you think we make a point of interviewing each tribute with Caesar before the Games? Why have an escort to do your publicity? It's so no matter what happens in the arena, the stories of all you brave young men and women, who sacrifice their lives for the good of Panem, will not be lost.” 

With those self-righteous and hideously clueless words ringing in his ears, Haymitch turns and punches a hole in the wall beside them, no mean feat considering the building is over eight hundred years old and made of plaster. She visibly flinches, in a terribly familiar way, and for a moment, his heart races in a familiar way too, like he's back home in Twelve, trapped in one of those moments where he can see his dad about to explode with anger and there's nothing he can do to stop it. 

His fists open, and he self-consciously puts his hands back down at his sides, making sure she sees it, even as he feels his heart pounding like crazy. 

“I'll see you in the morning, Lucilla,” he mutters, but he can't look her in the eye anymore. 

She takes the hint and leaves. “Early day tomorrow,” she says, her voice shaken and muted as she reaches the door. “Breakfast at 7 a.m. Be on time, for once.” 

He nods as he hears her leave, and finds his eyes focusing on the sideboard in his room which contains an assortment of expensive bottles of liquor. He strides over as soon as she's gone and picks up one of the heavier bottles, considering the label a moment – _Capitol Cognac_ \- before he smashes it with a furious satisfaction against the wall. He grabs another bottle and another and smashes them all, letting the rage overtake him, enjoying the sound of smashing glass and the sight of the brown and amber liquids streaming wastefully down the wall. The stains on the antique floral wallpaper run in chaotic lines that he knows will never scrub away, and he finds that utterly pleasing, until an Avox shows up out of nowhere at the sound of breaking glass, his expression frantic as he flees to the adjoining bathroom and emerges with a towel to mop up the mess. Haymitch can hear the Avox's shoes crunching atop the shards of broken glass as he starts his work. 

“No, no!” he exclaims, horrified at the submissive terror his actions have inspired in this man who is easily twice his age. “Please don't do that. I'll take care of it. It's my mess, I'll clean it up.” 

The Avox's eyes widen with … surprise? Fear? Confusion? Then he waves at Haymitch with the towel and shakes his head before returning to his task. 

“Leave it, I said!” he roars, and instantly regrets it as the Avox literally jumps backward a step, and turns quickly around, as if getting a predator in his sights. Haymitch feels shame wash over him as he wonders what the Avox did to be punished like this. Did he try to run away from his district? Did he just fuck something important up, or is he what Snow meant when he talked about the seeds of rebellion? Did this guy stand up to the Capitol, not symbolically like Haymitch, but in a real way? 

Raising his hands up at the man in a placating gesture, Haymitch struggles to make his voice even, soft, generous and unthreatening. Basically the opposite of everything about Randall Abernathy's voice. “I 'm sorry,” he breathes. “I shouldn't have. You'll get in trouble if I make you leave it, won't you?”

The Avox nods with a worried expression, then quickly looks back at the stained wall, now that Haymitch has made it clear he's not a threat. 

“Can I at least help you?” he asks. 

The Avox shakes his head emphatically, and waves at Haymitch again, clearly dismissing him. For a moment, Haymitch considers getting the hell out of there, running away from the shame of it, but then he frowns, falling onto the bed with a loud thump, making himself watch the Avox work. 

He lets the sound of crunching glass fill his ears and inhales deeply the aroma of spilt alcohol hanging in the air, punishing himself with it. 

The Avox will probably never appreciate his intentions, but Haymitch does it anyway; he figures it's the least he can do.

 

**

District Five has no current living victor, and at first, Haymitch thinks that he will at least get some relief from having to stare across the stage at someone who resents him for surviving. And at least in this district, he didn't kill anyone. 

But as it turns out, the media onslaught is actually worse to face alone, with no one else to relieve him even for a minute from entertaining the Capitol. At least in the other districts, the journalists assigned to his interviews had started figuring out what Haymitch was going to be like, and had planned accordingly: They had taken to asking him a few standard questions, showing a few of his impressive moments on screen – the force field moment excluded, of course – then quickly moving on to a program that's been adjusted to be less of the “tell us what was it like” variety and more about analysis of this year's games, an approach where any previous victor in attendance can easily find threads to pick up and discuss, leaving Haymitch to sit scowling in his chair. 

But this is not the case in District Five, where the spotlight is all Haymitch's. 

Marcus Keppeler, a famous but middle-aged has-been talk show host in the Capitol, has been brought in to deal with him today, and it's clear that Haymitch's reputation has preceded him and Keppeler is not pleased. Before the cameras start rolling, Keppeler glares at his prey from the tall-backed leather chair that looks out of place in the poverty of this district, even in front of the grand Justice Hall. His only words to Haymitch before they go live come out terse and impatient: “By the way, President Snow is watching tonight.” 

Haymitch swears his heart stops. Can Keppeler really know what is at stake here? Would Snow tell the man something like that? 

No, it can't be. Keppler just knows the importance of performing well when the President is watching; that's all, right? 

Yet the threat cows him enough that he actually does try to make an effort. But he's so rattled now, the interview is just a slow disaster. He tries to banter, but his timing is off. Despite the words he wielded like a weapon before the cameras came on, Keppeler clearly wasn't expecting any big change out of Haymitch, and so he misses at first that Haymitch is making jokes and then tries to cover the awkwardness that ensues with improvised changes of subject that get them nowhere conversationally. Finally, in desperation, the host tries one last area he clearly hopes will be harmless and garner some audience interest. 

“So Haymitch,” he begins. “You must be getting a lot of attention from the ladies in your district now that you're a celebrity.” 

Haymitch squints at him in surprise at this tack, but Keppler sends him a look implicitly telling him to roll with it. “You may not know this, but we ran a poll especially for this program where we asked fans to name their favorite tribute from the last ten years, alive or dead. You came in number three on that list, did you know that?” 

Haymitch shakes his head, knowing he should pull out his cocky persona from the Games, but he's having trouble producing it. The question is so ridiculous and he doesn't understand where it is going. 

“Is your escort forwarding you all the fan mail you're getting in the Capitol?” Keppeler asks. “From what we hear, you've got plenty of admirers of both genders, including President Snow's daughter.” 

The audience oohs and aahs at that revelation with just a touch of scandalized appreciation, but Haymitch is distracted, the reference to both genders reminding him of Flax and Melio in Eleven. A memory of Melio's fingers crawling affectionately across Flax's shoulders, in a way that his father never would have done with his mother makes Haymitch tense up almost impercetibly, and blinds him temporarily to the larger-than-life image being flashed onto the screen behind Keppeler. 

It's Alsey. She's smiling. She babbling excitedly about him on the television. For a bewildering millisecond, Haymitch's brain thinks this means that she is alive, and he gapes at the garish, deafening, fifty-foot sight of her. What the fuck is going on?

The soft strings playing underneath her words are the cue that finally let him understand what this is. Of course. He's never seen this footage, but it must have been filmed during Training Week, when they make profiles of all the tributes, the Capitol's way of generating interest in more tributes than just the Careers. Otherwise, no one would sponsor any tributes except the Ones, Twos and Fours, and Capitol forbid that the Games ever become boring. 

“Now what does your pretty Miss Alsey think of all this attention you're getting?” Keppeler leans in with a confidential smile. “You can tell us: is she jealous?” 

Haymitch is suddenly sure that all his nerve endings are on fire. Is this question a coincidence, or did Snow put Keppeler up to it? How the fuck is he going to answer? He suddenly thinks of Alsey's parents watching, and the idea of having to lie about her in public leaves him gutted and speechless. 

The dead air prompts Keppeler to turn to the audience with that same confidential smile, as if Haymitch isn't there. “Ah, I see,” he says with an insinuating air. “He doesn't want to get into trouble with his best girl, methinks.” He turns back to Haymitch with a pleased light in his eye, thrilled to have found a topic with some traction. 

“Well, come now, Clever Haymitch,” he banters. “That was your nickname in the Games, wasn't it?” 

After a moment, the audience's murmurs of approval confirm this fact and he gives them a broad smile and a wink before turning back to his prey. “You were clever enough to win the Games six months ago; surely you can talk your way out of this one.” 

The audience laughs, and Keppeler eats it up. For the first time in ages, he's got the audience in the palm of his hand, and he's unwilling to let go. 

Haymitch stares straight ahead, unseeing, eyes filled with the image of President Snow in his mansion, watching a viewscreen. “She isn't with me anymore,” he says in a monotone. He can't look at Keppeler's face; he can't, or he knows he'll lose it. 

The audience groans in sympathy. They can tell from Haymitch's stiff demeanor that this parting was against his will. Keppeler joins in with them melodramatically. “Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that,” he says. 

“Are you up to telling us what happened?” 

Haymitch still can't meet anyone's eye. What the fuck is he supposed to say? Is Snow going to punish him for this? Fuck. 

He can hear his own voice cracking with emotion, and he hates everyone and everything in the world right now. 

“She, um … she ... died.” His hands are shaking on his lap. _Shit, shit, shit_. Why did he just say that? Snow told him to keep it quiet. What has he just gone and done?

Another gasp from the audience. “Uh … it was a few months ago,” he adds, dropping the pitch of his words in a drastic way that he hopes communicates to Keppeler to please stop this line of questioning. But Keppeler senses ratings gold, and goes in for the kill. 

“Oh, Haymitch,” he says in his best sympathetic voice. “That _is_ a tragedy. Alsey seemed like such a nice girl when we interviewed her. She got very high ratings with our audiences. If it's any comfort, it was obvious to everyone how much she loved you, and how much you loved her.” 

Of course it's not any fucking comfort at all. But it's not like he can say that. “Could we please stop talking about this, Marcus?” he begs instead, hating being on display like this, terrified of the question that will surely come next, knowing he will have to manufacture a convincing lie or else endanger more lives. “It's a very emotional topic for me,” he tries. 

Marcus reaches in and pats Haymitch on the arm. “Of course it is. But you can see how this is shocking news to all of us who followed your story. There are going to be some very heartbroken viewers in the Capitol tonight, I can assure you of that.” He pauses. “Do you think you could just explain to us briefly how Alsey died? Everyone, I'm sure, wants to know.” 

Haymitch covers his eyes with his palms to hide the sudden fury. Snow already has taken his family, taken Alsey, and now he's probably already sitting in his office watching, plotting how to punish Haymitch for what he just said. The last thing Haymitch needs is to provoke him more. But Haymitch won't let Snow take the truth too, at least not like this. He can't make up some stupid lie about what happened to her. He just can't. 

He hunches in the fancy chair for what must be a full minute, wondering how to get out of this, while everyone around him sits waiting in polite, rapt silence. Even the District Five audience has been shocked out of its passive resentment and is hanging on tenterhooks to find out what's coming. 

“Please don't ask me to talk about it, Marcus,” he repeats lamely. “I can't. I just can't.” He tries to pretend to be on the verge of tears, but actually right now, he wants to punch something, wants to take a hammer to Marcus Keppeler's ridiculous hair-sprayed green wig, preferably with Keppeler still underneath it. 

“All right, all right, Haymitch.” Keppeler finally has no choice to back off or look cruel. “I understand. It's obvious this is quite painful for you.” 

Haymitch can tell that he's secretly annoyed, but he couldn't give a fuck right now. He's just glad Keppeler is ending this nightmare and that in a minute, he can go hide out in his room in the Justice Hall and pray he won't come home to a dead father or a punished district. Despite his words to Snow, he knows the instant he thinks about it that he can't live with any more deaths on his hands. There are a few perfunctory words to wrap up the interview and then Keppeler addresses the camera, urging them to tune in two nights from now, when Haymitch will be in District Four. 

The second the red light on the cameras go out, Haymitch is up and leaving the dais without permission, Lucilla's protests from across the stage buzzing like mosquitoes in his ears. 

 

** 

He gets to his room first, but within minutes, Lucilla is banging on his door, half-ordering, half-begging him to let her in. 

“Go the fuck away!” he yells at the door, but she's surprisingly persistent, and there's something immediate in her voice that despite his better judgment, makes him get up from the luxurious bed littered with useless and uncomfortable throw pillows. 

When he opens the door, she's got ugly streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. She's been obviously crying hard, and for a moment he's confused. “What do you want, Lucilla?” 

To his surprise, she just hugs him as tight as she can, all her lace and taffeta and buttons pressing into him. “I'm so sorry, Haymitch. I'm sorry about Alsey. I had no idea ... I'm sorry I never got to meet her.” 

“Then she means nothing to you,” he snaps at her, not wanting the job of processing her grief for her. “She's just another one of your damn stories in the annals of the Capitol.” He knows he's being cruel, but he's both too exhausted and too angry right now to care. He's also calculating enough to know that this is the precise level of harshness that will cut her deeply, and will probably make her go away.

Except that she doesn't. She grabs his elbow without a word and shuts the door behind her with a high-heeled foot. At first, he thinks she's going to pull him to the table and chair to talk, but instead, she guides him into the luxurious bathroom, turns the sink water tap on full blast, then brings him back into a tight embrace. 

“When I arrived in District Twelve for this tour, you told me Alsey didn't want to talk to me and that your mother was too sick to be interviewed,” she whispers into his ear. “You ran interference about your family the entire day and a half we were there, and you completely lied about Alsey, so tell me the truth: what's really happened?” 

His eyes widen, and his hands grab hers, not sure why he suddenly trusts her with something this big. “I can't talk to you about it,” he whispers as low as he possibly can.   
“I'm not allowed to talk about it. If they hear me ...” 

“You know what I think you need after that stressful appearance, Haymitch?” Lucilla says in a much louder voice. “A good, relaxing bath.” 

Before he knows it, she's turned off the sink taps and is running the bathtub ones instead, which make even more noise. It's a luxury tub, deep, and with jets of rushing water on all sides. “These kinds of tubs take about twenty minutes or so before they're full,” she says in a low, serious voice Haymitch has not heard before. “In the Capitol, you do this when you want to make sure a conversation will be truly private.” 

He's bewildered as she takes his hand and holds it in hers and they sit on the tub's edge side by side. 

“So if you want,” she says, “for the next twenty minutes, I'm here, all right?” . 

**

In the end, they don't talk much about it, because it's awful to say, and besides, he keeps getting distracted, checking the running water to see how much time they have left. But he tells her about the executions, about President Snow's visit. With the release of finally telling someone the truth about what's going on, he's unable to stop himself from crying a little, but she squeezes his hand, and after a minute, he pulls himself together as she turns off the spigots and the room turns eerily quiet by comparison. “Thanks,” is all he says, aware again of the bugs. Lucilla just nods. By silent agreement, they slide down from the tub's edge together, sitting on the bathroom floor in silence, hands already separated. 

He doesn't tell her about the loneliness, or about his father, or the nightmares of the arena, or any of the other things he's struggling with, because he can tell by her expression that she's already gotten way more than she bargained for and she doesn't know how to do much more than listen and put her arm around him for comfort, but she's surprisingly good at that. He startles when her arm first falls across his back, then tenses up, stiff in the half-embrace. But she leaves it there, and eventually, he calms down and lays his head on her shoulder and it feels nice somehow. 

He worries a little afterwards that he perhaps shouldn't have told her. Her expression is grim and there is an aura about her now, like she wishes she could unhear things. 

“You're not like you were an hour ago,” he says, yawning as she walks him out of the bathroom and straight to the bed, where she tucks him in like a mother. He's too grateful and too exhausted to even object, never mind resist. 

“Listen to you,” she softly teases him. “You just don't know how to stop being clever, do you?” He can hear a slight manic edge to her words as she strokes his dark curls over and over, but he's drifting quickly into sleep and has no idea how to address it anyway. “No talking now,” she orders. “Just sleep. You need it. I'll see you in the morning.” 

He has a nightmare a couple of hours later about his reaping. Except that instead of he and Maysilee, it's him and Lucilla being reaped. Alsey is there too, but she's dressed in Capitol garb, and he realizes that she is their escort. As Alsey draws the names, Lucilla is crying and begging her to explain why she's been reaped, and Alsey tells her there's no reason; it's just how the world works. Lucilla only cries harder. Haymitch feels like he's got a hole in his heart because somehow he knows that all of this is all his fault and there's no going back now; they're both in the arena whether they like it or not.

He wakes with his heart thumping wildly in the dark, and is surprised to see Lucilla – the real flesh and blood Lucilla – asleep in a chair near his bed. He lies there for a while watching her disheveled figure until the rise and fall of her breathing lulls him back into slumber for the rest of a dreamless night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the absence in posting! I promise I'll be back on the once-per-week schedule now, if anyone is still reading.

When he wakes in the morning, Lucilla is gone, but there is coffee and breakfast waiting on the table in his room. She keeps her distance as much as is possible during the train ride to District Four. At first, he makes a point of being near her, not wanting to talk to her necessarily, but just wanting to be in the presence of someone else who _knows_. But she keeps finding little ways to excuse herself, and he wonders if she is unhappy with him, or just trying to be safe. 

Then, after they arrive, something in her demeanor completely changes, and she about-faces into personally fussing over little bits of his wardrobe, adjusting his tie for him, finding ways to be close, as if maybe she's trying to find an opportunity to break the reserve the bugs everywhere require of them. He's not sure what's going on. She babbles on like nothing's happened between them, but there's this strange combination of distance and closeness that emanates from her now that's mystifying, and yet weirdly familiar, though he can't quite place it. 

They're standing in the wings waiting for Haymitch to be called out onto a nighttime stage made up to look like a low-budget version of Caesar Flickerman's in the Capitol: Haymitch figures it must be because they're getting closer to Panem's central hub – maybe the districts get richer in this direction, he muses. It would make sense, given how many more resources the Career districts seem to have.

As they wait, Lucilla puts a supportive hand on his shoulder and gives him a peck on the cheek, wishing him luck, like a mother sending her child off to his first day of school. It's all he can do not to startle under this unexpected, slightly manic show of affection. 

“Now don't worry,” she clucks. “I've made it clear to Caia Moulton that under no circumstances is she to ask you about Alsey or your family.” 

Caia Moulton. A name Haymitch distantly recognizes, a popular journalist in the Capitol. His last district appearance must have had good ratings, he thinks with distaste. Lucilla, however, smiles with a sense of triumph: “I told her she can try it, but she'll never get near Haymitch Abernathy again all year if she does!” 

The prep team appears for one last finishing application of stage makeup, impatient that the train's lateness deprived them of the chance to apply their full arts onto him. Haymitch waves away their attempts to flitter over him with an angry sweep of his hand that accidentally cuffs one of the least important of them: Preen gives a little shriek of overdone Capitol pain, and she, along with the two other members of the team, backs away with wide eyes, as if he's a wild beast. 

“Yeah, I'm not caged in the arena anymore, am I?” he snarls, letting his glare roll over her, then over all three of them. Their terrified expressions make him feel like he's just beat up on kindergarteners, and it quickly eats away at his righteous anger. But he's also too tense and impatient about this interview, no matter Lucilla's promises about the content, and they seem at least somewhat deserving of his ire. 

_Just a bunch of Capitol idiots, anyway,_ he reassures himself.

“I swear the next person who tries putting mascara on me is going to lose an arm!” he yells at them. Combined with Lucilla's meaningful glance in their direction, it's enough to get them to retreat.

“That was extremely bad manners, Haymitch,” she reproaches him as soon as they're gone, and it's too much like a mother for him to take. But he doesn't want to think about his mother and Lucilla in the same breath; it's just too disturbing. 

He looks around the room, considering the bugging devices that must be everywhere in here. 

“Really, the team is just trying to help you look your best for the cameras,” she scolds on, oblivious to his growing discomfort. “The better impression you make on camera this year, the better job you're going to be able to do as a mentor next year. You're not being fair to ...” 

“Are you all right?” he cuts her off, as bluntly as he can think to put it without risking either of their safety. 

She blinks. “All right?” she repeats slowly, then says even more deliberately, “I'm fine, Haymitch.” 

“I mean,” he pauses, searching for the right words, “we've been through a lot lately, haven't we?” 

He sees a flash of momentary panic in her eyes, how her gaze immediately flees, as if she's embarrassed or afraid. Is she thinking of the bugs too? 

“Oh, you know,” she chirps in her bright, singsong Capitol accent that has never stopped sounding strange to his ears. “The Victory Tour is quite the grueling schedule. So many people to meet in such a short amount of time. So many strong emotions involved. But not to worry.” 

At first, he thinks this is talking in code, or a prelude to an invitation to go later somewhere safe from listening ears for a moment. But she doesn't give him any further signal; her only movement is a frantic, restless tapping of her pencil on her clipboard. Her gaze makes a studied attempt to keep out of his line of sight.

“I'll be fine once we get home to the Capitol,” she murmurs as they hear his name announced, and there is a surprisingly decent amount of applause out there. Without ever meeting his eyes, she gets up and gently nudges him forward. “Now get out there, and don't let that woman bully you, all right? Don't talk about anything you don't want to.” Her voice is firm and final. 

A miserable, “Okay,” is all he can manage as he lets her push him out into the garish colored lights of the stage. 

**

District Four is a Career district, where volunteers regularly emerge, so Haymitch is not surprised by now to see the blank, stoic hostility on the faces of the audience: they're used to winning, thanks to the training that no one talks about, and this year, he's gotten in the way of that. Of course, no one saw it coming that the boy from the little backwater district would take the Games.

When he walks out on stage, a couple of minutes before the broadcast is to start, he's grateful to see that there's another victor out there, one who can maybe deflect some of the attention off him. His attitude changes, however, when he sees which victor it is. 

_Right, Mags,_ , he remembers as he sits down in the chair opposite her. Oldest living victor. _Great_. He's been in enough of these interviews by now to know that the older the victor sitting across from him, the more the cameras tend to focus in on him and his youth. He won't get a break all night. 

She looks even tinier and older than on television. She's in one of those Capitol chairs that aren't meant much for sitting up straight; yet she is sitting as straight as can be, legs not even trying to pretend they could reach the floor but instead crisscrossed in the seat in a way that Haymitch realizes he recognizes from previous years. Her long sleeveless green dress is narrowly tapered with a large floral print. With her knees sticking out underneath the fabric like that, she looks comfortable, almost defiantly casual. Actually, what she looks like to Haymitch is a praying mantis perched on a leaf, like she could wait forever in patient stillness. 

They're more organized here, he thinks, looking around on the dais. It's painted an enthusiastic seaweed green and the Capitol chairs are upholstered in sky blue. The lighting and cameras don't look tacked on and jarring here like they do every year in Twelve when the Victory Tour brings them. Examining the photos they've put up of the four tributes from this year, he wonders how the district even managed to produce them. The only photos Haymitch has ever seen before the Games took him to the Capitol had been a few very old ones that his mother had of her great-great-grandfather and her   
great-grandmother. 

They must have a lot more money here. All those victors and their winnings, he supposes. Are they sharing their money with the district? Or does the Capitol favor them that much that it gives them all these luxuries? There's a palpable unity here, and a thoughtfulness about the Games, unlike at home, where no one talks about the Reapings until the day they happen, and even then, in hushed and resigned tones. 

The event begins as they all do, with his little speech of thanks to the District written for him by Lucilla. He turns to Mags to acknowledge her, as he is supposed to do. The whole thing is meant to be acknowledgement that the Games had all been about nothing but graceful sportsmanship. Yet, as Mags sits through Haymitch's words in unreadable silence, he thinks of Chaff in District Eleven and his anger. He thinks she must be seeing nothing but the boy who made her bring home four coffins this year instead of just two. 

“Look at that,” Caia Moulton gushes as she guides them all through his highlights tape, then focuses on one moment with the kind of breathless oblivion Haymitch has by now come to expect from anyone associated with the Capitol. “Here's my absolute favorite part of the whole Games.” 

The footage zooms in on Haymitch's feet as he steps around the gravely wounded District 1 tribute he's just left on the ground and goes in for a vicious but ill-timed underhand knife blow to the Four tribute's abdomen, the most dangerous remaining member of the Career pack. The strike misses, and Haymitch has to quickly dodge a riposte from a spear. Haymitch can detect the moment when he figures out how to pull back and wait. The two of them begin a dance of attacks and near misses, Haymitch letting the Four tribute make blow after blow, letting him tire. What startles Haymitch most to watch on this tape now is the distinct lack of any expression at all on his own face as he wards off the blows for several minutes, letting the older boy's visible frustration soon build up into rage. His shoulders stiffen as he realizes that there’s something about this that is all too familiar. 

He stays glued to the screen, recognizing all the sensations hiding behind that empty expression on his face – the fear, the adrenaline, the fury, and the urge to run – all of it rolled up tight like a monstrous creature masked behind a cocoon, waiting for liberation. He wonders why he's never noticed this before, since he's watched footage of his Games before in all the previous districts: 

Turns out he's been training for the Games all his life. _Thanks, Dad_ , he thinks, repressing a bitter grimace. 

“Now at first when I was watching this live,” Caia interjects into the silence of the two tributes endlessly circling each other. “I must admit I thought it was going to be completely dull. I mean, you want to see some action on the field, you know? And you two were so careful. But the tension you both built up there! I kept feeling more and more suspense as the minutes wore on!” she exclaims, as if Haymitch and the Four tribute had planned their life and death struggle for her entertainment. The viewscreen freezes on a shot of Haymitch in profile, standing over the dead Four tribute in just the moment before the third Career is about to attack him. He doesn't even look worried. 

“Such an amazing show of calm, in the face of three Careers, no less,” Caia breathes, apparently clueless that perhaps the families and friends of the dead tribute in the audience might not want to dwell on this particular moment of the Games. “Given their superior fighting skills, how do you think you managed to defeat them?”

When he'd woken up in that hospital in the Training Center, Haymitch hadn't been able to feel anything. Everyone around him had been full of hyperreal emotion – excitement mostly - but he had felt nothing, just completely flat, and he had stayed that way for days afterward. During his interview with Caesar Flickerman, necessity had forced him to turn back on the persona that he and Lucilla had created together for the Games, and he had told himself that he would figure out the emptiness later. But he had watched this exact footage of himself back then with no memory, no recognition of himself as that killer with the dead expression. He hadn't _wanted_ to look at it, although he'd certainly pretended to enjoy it for Flickerman. 

With great effort, he makes himself turn that persona back on again now, and gives them a nonchalant shrug for the cameras. “I guess I just had nothing left to lose,” he says. Which he instantly realizes is a stupid thing to say. That was true for all the tributes in the arena, wasn't it? And it wasn't even true: There'd been his Ma and Jackson to lose, and Alsey. And Snow has already found other things to hold over him, hasn't he? There's Alsey 's family. Even random people of District 12 he doesn't know. A disturbing vision of his future rolls out before him, where he will be at Snow's every beck and call for the rest of his life, constantly worrying about someone else dying because of him. 

“Well, now, I wouldn't exactly say that,” Caia _tsks_ at him with one pronounced finger crooked in the air. “There was Alsey to come back to, wasn't there?” 

He tries not to show how his whole body has clenched at the sound of that name coming out of the woman's mouth. _Not again_ , he crumples inside. _Lucilla promised_. 

But he knows this isn't Lucilla's doing. He imagines her now backstage, stamping one red high-heeled foot on the floor in outrage. She can do nothing from there though. He sees now how this is Caia's only chance to ask this question when anyone watching will care, and if she handles this right, this interview will be replayed for weeks to come and then hauled out again next year, when he returns to the Capitol as a mentor. It won't matter if Lucilla bans Caia for the rest of the year, because by then, she'll have moved on anyway. 

“How are you holding up, Haymitch?” Caia smiles, her expression laced with sympathy as garish as her makeup. Another stock photo of Alsey, from that same interview she gave during the Games, melts onto the viewscreen. They snuck it past Lucilla, he realizes, as a brief wave of nausea threatens to overtake him. He gapes at Caia, mind racing. _How do you think I'm holding up?_ he wants to say, blocking his ability to think of something useful to say. _Have you ever had anyone you love taken away from you? Have you ever lost anything in your whole life?_

But of course he can't say any of that. 

“All of Panem has been concerned about you ever since this heartbreaking revelation about Alsey's death,” Caia prods with fake gentleness. “How are you handling this tragedy?” 

He's got to say _something_. He won't be able to get away with begging off like he did in District Five. _Fuck_.

“Now, Caia,” a honeyed voice, underlined with unmistakable steel, interrupts. It takes Haymitch a moment to realize that Mags is speaking. “I know that this is young Abernathy's victory tour and I'm just old Mags who's been around forever, but you _are_ in my district, and I'm beginning to feel a little offended that you haven't yet asked me a single question.” 

He stares at her with eyes narrowed in confusion. He killed one of her tributes. Why is she defending him? Slowly he looks over at Caia, whose face has taken on a guarded, rubbery smile of discomfort. 

“If all of Panem is concerned about him, then I should think that all of Panem would not want to force the boy to relive such a terrible loss just for its prurient interests,” Mags eyes Caia meaningfully, “nor your ratings.” 

The spotlight shifts immediately away from him and onto her, and there are murmurs of muted, anonymous support emanating from the District Four audience. The power she must have to dare say such things in front of the cameras. How has he never noticed this power all these years of seeing her at the Games? 

Caia Moulton pounces to quell a budding mutiny. “I assure you, this isn't about what _I_ want, Mags,” she retorts, her slick as oil tone shifting and sharpening to a steel point. “In the time between now and Haymitch's last appearance in District Five, the Gamemakers have received over ten thousand pieces of mail asking how Haymitch is doing and what happened to poor Alsey.” 

_Ten thousand?_ That many people have been paying attention to him? It's a concept he finds inconceivable.It's a _number_ he finds inconceivable.That's more than all the people in Twelve.

“What _did_ happen to poor Alsey?” Mags folds her hand into a deliberate steeple, waiting. Haymitch sees Caia just barely manage to suppress a smile of satisfaction. 

“Our sources say that Alsey died of a fever,” she announces and waits a moment, as if listening to the gasps of dismay all over the Capitol. 

A _fever_? He's supposed to say that Alsey died of a fever? He doesn't know whether he's angry at the lie or relieved at being fed a response. 

“Caia,” Mags continues her reproach. “I have seen too many of your interviews through the years to know that you have never been one to bend to popular will.” 

It's a compliment, but even through his haze, Haymitch can hear the whipcords lashing out underneath, warning Caia to acquiesce. One thing's for sure, Mags is fooling almost no one into thinking that this interaction is what she says it is – the sour grapes of a jealous former victor. Perhaps the audience in the Capitol will be fooled, but he doubts anyone else will. He wonders if Mags will receive her own presidential visit soon, or worse, the thought seizes him, if one of her many children or grandchildren he's seen her talking to before the event started will be used as punishment for this act of kindness. 

“I miss her every day, Caia,” he blurts out, grasping at anything he can say to get attention off Mags. “She was taken from me so unfairly,” he dares to add, wondering if Alsey's parents are watching. He's not sure whether talking about her like this, acknowledging even in a covert way that she was killed is something horrific for them to watch, or if it feels like a small justice he owes them for getting her killed. “What force in the universe would take her from me like that? After I'd just beaten the odds?” 

To his relief, Caia's smile relaxes and she turns back to him. “A cruel force, Haymitch,” she confirms. He takes a petty satisfaction that she has no idea that she's just helped him come out publicly against Snow. 

But she does seem to have wisely read the room and taken her victory where she can get it, switching back to questioning Mags about her mentoring this year. Mags takes one last probing look over at Haymitch before settling into a standard discussion about where her tributes shone and where, ultimately, they went wrong. She is still seated cross-legged in her chair, eyes fixed calmly on the video of Haymitch dealing the deathblow to her tribute as she remarks evenly, without rancor, but also without enthusiasm, “I had two strong candidates this year. They tried very hard to live.” 

If Haymitch weren't ready to bolt up out of his chair, he'd be curious how she does it, how she manages to watch people she's responsible for, dying like that, and not go out of her mind. But he wants nothing more than to be out of there. The minute the lights on the cameras go out, he's forcing himself to thank Caia, even though he would really rather strangle her, and to stay long enough to shake Mags' hand. 

“You shouldn't have jumped in like that.” For the benefit of the microphones he's sure are still turned on for the recap and gossip shows, he makes it sound like he's chiding her, but really he's hoping his tone is sharp enough to warn her that she is in danger. 

“I didn't become a victor by just standing by and watching things happen, young man.” She smiles at him, still hanging onto his proffered hand. “That's just not the stuff we're made of. You'll see that soon enough.” 

He looks back at her, puzzled. Has she understood? He couldn't live with himself if one of her family members could be saved from Snow's clutches and wasn't because he hadn't warned her in time. Maybe if she goes to Snow, apologizes, sucks up to him some … 

But the harmless chuckle under her breath could mean anything. “We'll be seeing a lot more of each other soon,” she continues. “And who knows? You might even need a favor from me six months from now. Don't you think we'd be best off being nice to each other?”

She pats his hand then withdraws her own. “We'll talk more at the banquet.” 

She doesn't get it, he realizes with dismay. But before he can try again, Caia is glad-handing her, and then Mags is enveloped by a gaggle of friends and family members of widely varying ages, children, young women, middle-aged men descending upon the stage, all of them with bronze, thick hair and skin brown from exposure to the sun. He watches her figure receding into that thicket of affection and respect, and turns away, a sudden, unexpected jealousy rising like bile in the back of his throat. 

**

The Victory Banquet takes place the next day not at the Justice Hall, as usual, but in Mags' home, which apart from President's Snow's mansion and the accommodations at the Training Center, is the largest living space Haymitch thinks he's ever seen. 

He sits at the far end of a large banquet table laden equally with food and with people. His eyes settle uncomfortably on the large, brown, ceramic pot in front of him, filled to bursting with foods he has never before seen in his life, not even in books. He can only assume they must be District 4 delicacies from the sea – creatures with hard, inedible shells, with curved bodies and legs that are so tiny in comparison to their bodies, Haymitch can't imagine how they could ever walk on land. His eyes sweep along the wealth of food along the table, marveling at how it's like looking at the Cornucopia, if it were only filled with food instead of weapons and survival gear. There is a large platter piled high with corn on the cobs; whole fishes that are monstrous in size compared to what people manage to sneak out of the lake beyond the fence back home; a strange, dark-green vegetable that looks vaguely like spinach, but the size of the leaves are all wrong, and the plant seems to have no stalks whatsoever; a mound of rice in a large, colorfully painted clay pot – it just goes on and on, putting all the victory banquets in the   
other districts so far to shame. He's pretty sure that he's not seen this much food in one place since he left the Capitol. 

He was seated originally at the center of the table, as the honored guest and ostensible focus of the event; but Haymitch quickly has learned that this couldn't be further from the truth. Mags is the real star here, and he's grateful for that, for as people have risen after dinner to talk with her, it's allowed him to quietly inch his body along the bench until he has reached the end, out of sight, where he just feels more comfortable. Even the journalists pay more attention to Mags. She had seemed so tiny and alone in that big chair onstage during the interview with Caia, but here, she holds court like the kings and queens of old in one of his mother's heirloom books from before the Dark Days. It seems that almost everyone here is a beloved friend or relative who kisses Mags on the cheek in greeting and spends several minutes discussing things with her, their hands darting all over the place with gestures and their faces animated with sincere affection. He finds it both utterly compelling and a little overwhelming to watch – this outpouring of emotion. She even overshadows the District 4 mayor – a tall, muscular, suntanned woman in her fifties who looks like she'd be more at home on a fishing boat than officiating an event like this. The woman seems perfectly happy to play with one of Mags' many grandchildren and to let Mags run the show, as if it just makes good sense. 

Lucilla, who is still at the center of the table on the opposite side, is expertly cracking the shell of one of the larger boiled sea animals that had been brought to her at her request. (The waiter had offered Haymitch one as well, but it had looked too much like an enormous water bug, complete with antennae and beady, black eyes, and Haymitch had declined the offer in disgust he hoped he hid well enough.) Despite there being about ten to fifteen people at this table, Haymitch notices that the District Four dignitaries have given her a wide berth. Bored despite his desire to hide away from everything, he walks over and sits down next to her, intending to stay only a moment.

“How can you eat that thing?” he murmurs as she rips open a claw and coaxes out a piece of rubbery, pink-red meat. 

“This 'thing' is called a lobster, I'll have you know,” she retorts primly, “and it costs real money in the Capitol. I'm taking advantage to have some while I'm here.” 

Haymitch realizes that he has never thought of Lucilla as someone who had to think about money. Come to think of it, he's always assumed in the back of his mind that Capitol citizens don't have to worry about money at all – food just magically appears on their plates without effort, like at the Training Center.

“Not to mention, every man, woman and child knows how to prepare lobster here,” she adds. “It's in their blood, I suppose.” 

“Oh, like coal mining is in my blood, right?” he rolls his eyes at her, then remembers that he should watch his tongue near the journalist pack, near the invisible cameras that are probably somewhere filming this. But the reminder of his district shames him, as it occurs to him that already, he's been exposed to the Capitol lifestyle too much: Anyone from back home sitting here in his place would have eaten everything off their plate – monstrous water bug and all – without question. The way Lucilla is dipping the creature's meat in calorie-rich butter alone would make choking the stuff down worth it. 

Feeling penitent, he asks to try it, but it's disturbingly chewy, yet a bit slimy too, like it's trying to be meat, but soft in all the wrong places. He swears he can still taste the salt from the ocean on it as he swallows it with a barely suppressed shudder. The combination of flavors just seems all wrong to him. 

“Are you going to go see the beach?” a small voice pipes up at Haymitch's side. “People who come to visit us always want to see the beach.” 

Haymitch looks down to see a small boy with dark, curious eyes and an innocent grin that reminds him terribly of Jackson, despite the boy's bronze head of hair. The power of speech robbed from him by the comparison, Haymitch just manages to shrug.

The child, who must be one of Mags' endless grandsons or grand nephews, barely hesitates before pleading, “Can I come with you? I'm not allowed to go by myself, but you're older. You could take me. You'd love it there. The ground there is like nothing you’ve ever seen, and the water has waves, big ones. And I could show you where it is, so I could go with you. We could go after dinner …” 

Jackson used to do this when he wanted to convince Haymitch to do something, he remembers heavily. He would pile up short sentences like that, rapid and out of sequence, all of his words coming out in whatever order he thought of them, like they were meant to convince Haymitch by their sheer number rather than by any reasoning power.

“Kid, I don't know,” he hedges. He's bored here, but he's not really in the mood to go anywhere else. Being alone in his room is what he'd rather be doing, if he weren't obligated to put in the appearance here. And the last thing he wants to do is to babysit some boy who is just going to remind him of his dead little brother the whole time. “Maybe you should ask your Gran.” 

For a moment, the boy looks discouraged, but then brightens. “I'll tell her you want to go!” he exclaims, delighted with his new plan, ignoring how Haymitch groans at the idea. _Great_ , he thinks, watching the kid bound over to Mags, waiting respectfully until she finishes speaking with another adult, then tugging at the sleeve of her blouse. Mags listens to him, then looks up and across the room at Haymitch, who just shrugs helplessly as she rises and walks over. 

“So Carlos says you want a tour of the beach after the banquet?” 

Haymitch cocks his head. “Well, it's kind of more what _he_ wants ...” 

“It's not a bad idea,” she announces. “Should have thought of it myself. I'll bet you've never seen the ocean, have you?” 

“I'll see it some other time. I'm sure I'll have some reason to come back here one day.” 

“Nonsense. After all this rich food, I am going to need a walk.” 

He is about to protest again, when Mags calls out to Carlos, “Niño!”

The boy comes running. “Sí, abuelita?” he asks hopefully. She gives him a reproving scowl, but even Haymitch can tell that it's fake, can hear the love for him leaking out the sides of her tone. 

“Your little trick worked,” she informs him. “We'll go see the beach. You can bring a couple others if you want. But be ready in a half hour.” 

“ _Yesss!_ the boy nearly hisses in satisfaction and runs off, issuing a perfunctory shout of, “Gracias, abuelita!” over his shoulder. Mags smiles, despite herself. 

Haymitch can see there's no way out of it, but that doesn't mean he won't still try: “The ocean's just a bigger pond, isn't it?” he sighs. “I've seen a pond before.” 

She raises her eyebrows in challenge. “And a tiger is just a bigger housecat?”

His reply is lazy yet argumentative: “I've never seen a tiger.” 

“And be very thankful for that, hijo,” she says, suddenly sounding tired, or maybe sad, but it's gone in a flicker of a moment. “All right then. We shall leave in thirty minutes.” She points at the spread on the table. “Try the oysters,” she suggests, enjoying Haymitch's grimace at the sight of the things when she points them out. “They're just as awful as they look.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his victory tour, Haymitch soon finds out that the real Games have only just begun, and survival means learning to spin out a web of lies, compromises and self-destruction. The Games' oldest living victor and arguably its most intelligent one show him that even in the tainted life of a Victor, there are still ways to prevail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a finished multi-chaptered work that I will post about once per week.

They say little as they make the ten-minute walk to the beach along winding sand-dusted roads surrounded on either side by medium-sized scrub. (District Four reminds Haymitch of his own district in this one way: Nothing here completely escapes the thin coat of sand, the way everything in District Twelve has a layer of coal dust.) 

For a brief, annoying moment, Haymitch had thought the Capitol journalists were going to follow them, but then at the last minute, they were distracted by the late appearance of an older Four victor, Vitae, who has become something of a recluse and is never seen in  
the Capitol. As she makes her appearance and the journalist pack darts after her, Mags gives Haymitch a knowing wink, and gestures for them to leave. He suddenly realizes that Mags must have sent for her. 

Of course, Carlos and his little friends more than make up for Mags and Haymitch's silence, with their oblivious whoops, running ahead and picking up rocks from the side of the road and seeing how far they can throw them forward. Mags seems unconcerned at their growing distance, perhaps because it's a sunny day. The wind is whipping around, but it's still a lot warmer than it would be in Twelve, which he's grateful for. There is also a distinct smell in the air that Haymitch doesn't recognize. It's not quite a dank odor, but sort of like a combination of the brine he remembers smelling in the grocer's shop back home. 

When they finally reach the crest of a hill made of sand, dirt and rocks, the ocean quite suddenly comes into full view, and Haymitch's first glimpse of it is nearly dizzying. It's so wide, the houses along the shoreline on either side look like multicolored dots. And as far as he can see forward, there is nothing but bright, blue water, the nearest portion cresting relentlessly and pounding at the shore. The water just never ends; he stands there staring at it, stunned. 

He knows from school that the oceans mark the boundaries of Panem, but his teachers had never talked more about the details than that, and you learned fast that it paid to train yourself out of wondering such things. But eyeing this endless expanse of water, those childhood questions about other not-Panem places come back to him anew. 

Mags lets him stand there just staring for a while. “It looks like it goes on forever, but it does end somewhere.” She sounds pleased with his gaping response to the view. 

“What's on the other side?” 

“Not sure anymore,” she replies. “Back before the Dark Days, my parents used to tell me that there had been islands out there if you went far enough, islands where the language of our ancestors came from. But nobody knew anymore if those islands were still there. They were probably submerged, though, back when the waters rose.”

Haymitch thinks about this. “But there still must be something out there eventually, if you go far enough, right?” 

With a hand on his shoulder that feels warm and soothing to him, she chuckles. “Always wanting to know where things go, aren't you, muchacho?” She then nods at his question. “Yes, it makes sense, doesn't it? But they didn't teach us that in school, so I couldn't tell you.” 

“Not in my school either,” he commiserates. “I remember one time in a geography lesson on the districts in third grade, this friend of mine Kori Holborn raised his hand and asked the teacher what else there was in the world beyond Panem. A couple of other kids started making guesses out loud, and her face turned so angry. She just glared at Kori and told the kids to be quiet. Then she moved on to something else.” 

“Well, I guess the teachers in Panem haven't changed much in fifty years,” she grumbles. She gives his shoulder a squeeze that feels a bit like a shrug, as if to say, _What can be done about it?_

“What does that word mean?” he asks after a long, silent moment. 

Her eyebrow flicks up in surprise. “What word?” 

“ _Muchacho_.”

That makes her smile. “Oh, nothing special. It just means 'boy'.” 

“I'm not a boy anymore,” he intones. 

She sighs. “Maybe not.But you deserve to be.” The hand falls from his shoulder. “Come, let's go down to the beach. There’s nothing like seeing the ocean up close.” 

She propels herself down the sandy slopes with confidence, but for Haymitch, it's a halting, lurching, almost limping journey to the flatter land by the shore, and even when he gets down there, the land is still not exactly even. The lack of solidity under his feet is disconcerting. It's not entirely unlike slogging through very wet mud, but still, he has to struggle to keep up with Mags, and Carlos and his friends are already pinpricks along the shoreline. He thinks how if they'd had beaches in the arena, how he probably wouldn't be alive today. 

“Has anyone ever tried getting into a boat and just sailing out there, until they found something?” he asks when he catches up with her. The idea of it is starting to fascinate him. 

“If they have, they've never come back to tell us. They'd probably die first of starvation and thirst long before they found anything,” she shrugs beside him as they walk close to the loudly crashing waves. 

Haymitch is realizing that she probably suggested getting near them because in the off-chance that the Capitol actually had found a way to bug this beach (although there is a distinct lack of hiding places for microphones here), they'd be pretty useless recordings, like Lucilla's bathtub tap trick.

“Why do you ask?” 

He shrugs back. “Oh, just wondering.” When she makes no sound of acknowledgment, he awkwardly adds, “I mean, if you had nothing left to lose, you might try to find something better than...” He doesn't know how to finish that sentence at first. “You know, better than all this crap.” 

She stops short at that, prompting him to stop with her as she stares him down. “What that is is suicide,” she says in a clipped tone, with hints of strong emotion hiding beneath. “And District Twelve has had enough of that for now.” 

Haymitch realizes that she talking about Twelve's victor, the one who would have mentored Haymitch and Maysilee if he hadn't hung himself the night before Reaping Day. Lucilla had informed them of this detail on the train, although Haymitch had already seen Swagger's body on a stretcher back from beyond the fence, covered with a sheet.

Talk of the man brings forth a flash of renewed anger. 

“Not talking about suicide,” he grunts. “I would never do that, leave people in the lurch like that coward did.”

“I suppose you have a right to feel anger towards Swagger,” she replies in a slow and measured tone as she starts them walking again. “But I have good memories of him. He was a good friend to many of us – watched out for those who ended up in the Capitol's crosshairs. He took care of them in the aftermath too, helped them get back on their feet. And he was a dedicated mentor.” 

Deep inside him, Haymitch knows that there's something important buried in the details of what Mags is saying, but he isn't able to focus on that right now. Right now, he's too angry at the thought of Swagger March.

“Yeah, well, if he was such a dedicated mentor how come he never brought home a single tribute in ten years and then offed himself?” he challenges. “Why did he leave us twisting in the wind? Do you know he'd give us this speech every year about how hard he'd tried to save our tributes and how next year would be different? It was already a pretty stale speech by the time I started hearing it.”

“Maybe you should bring home a victor before you start judging others,” she snaps, and then there is no sound except the rushing waves and the faint cries of boys roughhousing in the distance. He realizes he's crossed a line with her, but that's not what makes him come to such an abrupt halt.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. _I'm a mentor next year._. 

He might have spent a lot of time in the last few months not thinking about that fact all. Swallowing hard, he stares out at the seemingly endless ocean. 

He doesn't know what to tell his boy and girl in a few months, he thinks, staring back out at the endless ocean, thinking about Carlos and his friends in the distance, how they don't look starved like most of the children in his district. He thinks about how much food was in Mags' house.

“We're not supposed to win, are we?” he realizes. “Twelve, I mean? I wasn't ever supposed to win. Swagger's tributes weren't supposed to win either. Twelve’s tributes are just supposed to die, aren't they?” He pauses. “That's why all the victors hate me.” 

“Hate you?” she manages to say like it's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard. “How could any of them hate you? They don't even know you.”

He says nothing, taken aback. He’d been expecting reluctant confirmation. 

“Do you really think you're that important, or that they're that petty?” she prods, sounding annoyed. 

“But I killed their tributes,” he protests, like she doesn't know already what he's talking about. “I was just supposed to die, like we do every year. But I didn't. I broke the rules and I used the arena to kill their tributes. That's why they won't talk to me.” He kicks at some sand. “I'm surprised _you're_ talking to me.” 

“ _Muchacho_ , haven't you figured it out by now?” she retorts, shaking her head at him. “They've been _ordered_ not to talk to you. In very harsh terms.” 

He pauses in surprise. “They have? Why?” He thinks a moment, then: “by Snow?” 

“Of course, Snow. He likes to keep us all apart, isolated, fighting each other,” she says, the disdain dripping from her tone. When Haymitch just continues to stare at her in shock, unsure of what to say, she sighs and offers, “Want to go cool off our toes? We can walk along the water.” 

Haymitch doesn't really want to, but every excuse he comes up with in his head isn't going to work. So Mags waits in silence while Haymitch unlaces the fancy leather dress shoes provided to him by his stylists and stuffs the silk socks into them. In a couple of fluid movements, Mags detaches herself from her sandals and then they are soon approaching the foam-filled tide. Haymitch keeps his gaze on the sand being tossed around by his toes as they walk, until Mags interrupts the silence. 

“We know he killed your family, and your girlfriend. We victors know.” The first waves reach them, flooding their feet and trapping them in the soggy sand. Haymitch stands there stock-still, shocked into meeting her gaze. He takes a reflexive look around him, searching for places someone could install a bug, but there isn't really much, unless they've gotten really elaborate and installed something under the beach. 

“He can't put his listening toys here,” Mags reassures him, reading his body language. “This is one of the few safe places to talk in the district.” 

He exhales with utter relief. “Snow threatened me,” he mutters. “Told me people in my district would die if I told anyone about what happened to my family and Alsey.” 

“Of course he did,” she snorts. “He does that with all of us. It's not so easy to keep you hopping if you can compare notes with the rest of us, is it?” She wiggles her toes in the surf with a pleased expression that belies her serious tone. “Together we're stronger,” she concludes. “He knows that; so he tries to keep us apart as long as possible with threats and with lies about each other.”

“Then how did you even find out about my family?” he insists, finally remembering to unstuck his feet from their sand trap. 

She shrugs. “He must have moved fast after your Games. Snow told one of us what he'd done to you, while you were still recovering in the hospital from your injuries. Thee little revelations of his are always meant as an object lesson, to keep one of the Victors in line.” The barest hint of a smile appears on her lips. “Of course, that Victor immediately told the rest of us.

“We share information whenever we can. We help each other fight him.” 

“So he does threaten all of you like this,” he puts the implications together, thinking about Carlos far ahead. “What you did for me on the stage tonight, aren't you worried about that? What about your family?”

“My family will be fine. There are ways around Snow,” she finishes, “little ways that you'll learn when you start with us. When you throw a bunch of victors into a room together every year like that, you can't completely control them. They're going to find ways to start talking to each other, to fight back.”

“I can't fight Snow,” Haymitch said sullenly. “He's got me pinned. If I do anything he doesn't like, he'll start taking it out on my district.” 

She puts a hand on his shoulder again. He's not sure whether it's supposed to be comforting or just for emphasis. “What I did tonight for you was based on knowledge from forty years of victors learning how to fight Snow and survive. We know what we can and can't get away with. You can learn too. You _need_ to learn.” 

“I need to learn to keep my head down,” he grumbles, pulling himself out of her grip. “And keep my district safe.” 

He's free of her of grip, but not from her gaze, which pins him in place just as surely as the electromagnetic field that glued him to the hovercraft ladder at the end of his Games, even as he felt himself passing out on the rungs. 

“You think you're done with the arena forever when you win,” she continues, “but the arena you're about to walk into now is much bigger, much crueler. Bigger stakes too.”

Haymitch doesn't want a bigger, crueler arena. He just wants to rest. 

“Mags, if you only knew … ” He trails off for a moment, arms crossed over his chest, overwhelmed by the prospect of what she's hinting at. “I've had it with damned arenas!” he exclaims. “You think you know all about me, but you don't! My whole life has been an arena!” 

He can see from her expression that she's patiently waiting him out. It's the same serene expression he's seen her put on for the cameras at all the Hunger Games he's ever remembered seeing back home. It's so familiar that in this context, he finds it jarring, and he feels himself emotionally scrabbling for purchase.

“I'm a victor!” he shouts at her. “I won the Hunger Games! What the hell does that even mean if I _still_ have to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life?” 

After a long moment of silence, she sighs, but it's not like earlier. This time there isn't pity there. When she speaks again, her voice has turned matter-of-fact, maybe even a little cold. 

“It means you're Snow's tool,” she says, “to keep people thinking about which shirt you're wearing, and who you're dating this year, and what chances your tributes have of slaughtering twenty-three other children to death for the Capitol's entertainment, instead of the fact that their government is monitoring all their conversations, looking for even a hint of treason, and making its citizens disappear into a labyrinth of jails, torture and secret executions if they even breathe the wrong way.”

“They're doing that to people in the Capitol?” he asks, eyebrows raised.But then he remembers Lucilla and how well she knew to turn on the water faucets and whisper in his ear and to keep her words ambiguous. 

She ignores him, voice growing in intensity. “It means that from now on, you will always be telling lies about yourself to please the Capitol's cameras, and you will have no choice about it, if you want your people to live. Your company will be sold to the highest bidders in order to fund the government treasury. You will have to do things you hate and even fear to protect the people that matter to you from _him_. The life of a victor is an arena of lies and compromises, boy.”

The tide has submerged his feet again, keeping him rooted in place. “Is that why Swagger killed himself?” he breathes. “To escape?”

She shakes her head resolutely. “Swagger killed himself because he couldn't face another set of parents whose children had died. And because he had never been a happy man to begin with, long before the Hunger Games took him. A good man, a very good man, but not a happy one. A bit like you, actually.

“It's possible to survive this life, boy; I'm proof of that, and so are all those other victors in Mentor Central, many of whom could be your friends, your allies, if you let them. It is possible to fight him,” she insists. “In little ways now, but I think in bigger ones someday.”

The surprising possibility she leaves dangling there is too surprising to resist. “Bigger ways? What do you mean?” 

“I mean as big as it gets.” 

Haymitch’s eyes narrow. “You mean, like a revolution?”

There is just a hint of a grin on her face. “Oh, now you're suddenly interested ...” 

Haymitch rolls his eyes. “In getting rid of Snow?” he snarls. “Of all this? Of course I'm interested.” 

“Well, think about what the Hunger Games does every year,” she waxes philosophically. “Out of twenty-four children, most of whom hate the Capitol already, it weeds out the strongest, the cleverest, the most ruthless killer of all, and it puts that child in a position to grow up getting to know the Capitol intimately, mingling with its most powerful citizens, becoming beloved celebrity figures. Meanwhile, they come back each year and mentor more killers like them who hate the Capitol. Now imagine if all those victors were united? What could they get up to?” 

“When you put it like that, you make the Hunger Games sound like the dumbest idea the Capitol ever thought up,” Haymitch observes, caught halfway between amazement and skepticism. 

There is an undertone of mischief to her grin. “I'd like it to be. The key, of course, is that we're all united. And we aren't exactly yet,” she admits. “Districts One and Two, course. They still believe in the Capitol mierda. So no talk of rebellion with them, all right, boy?” 

Haymitch nods. “Got it.” 

She grabs his hand in confirmation. “But anyway, next stop for you is District Three. Snow thinks they are all his whipped dogs there too, because they invent all the Capitol's toys, and the electronics for all the weapons. But Three's victors know who the real enemy is in Panem. There are allies you can count on. Of course, they won't be able to talk to you right now, but when you get to Mentor Central next Hunger Games, you should look up Beetee and go out for a drink. He's just a little older than you, and I think you two would get along.”

“The guy who won with the electrical wire, right?” 

Mags nods. “Do you remember his Games?” 

“Not really well. But my girl was rooting for him from day one that year. She likes him because he's smart.” 

The words are out of his mouth before he realizes: He’d actually forgotten for a little while that Alsey's not alive anymore. _Shit_. A wave of loss and guilt hits him so hard he can't think straight. _How could I have forgotten that?_

“That he is,” agrees Mags stiffly. She must have noticed the slip too. “Nobody still really understands how he won his Games. But he's also got a great sense of humor. I think he'd make a good friend for you.”

The idea of having a friend seems to him a bit ridiculous and childish at this point. Haymitch hasn't had a friend besides Alsey in such a long time, he can't remember having had one at all. His last friend was probably at age six or seven, and he remembers the kid's face, but not his name anymore. Having friends became awkward once his dad started being drunk all the time, and then no one wanted to be friends with him anymore anyway.

He'd felt a suprising impulse to try and make friends with Chaff, but that had worked out terribly. He wonders idly what District Three's victor might hate him for. 

“You don't believe me,” she observes, and turns to call Carlos and his friends back to start the journey home. “That's all right. You'll see for yourself.” 

Carlos then appears, beaming with pride, a pile of shells in his hand and a fish hanging over his back, dangling from a makeshift fishing hook made of bone and some woven-together vegetation that Haymitch has been seeing all over the beach. 

“Abuelita, look!” he cries. “Look what I got!”

“Niño, you know better than that,” she chides him as soon as she sees the fish. “Now your mother is going to have to salt a perfectly good fish just so it won't go to waste when we have so much cooked food at home. And that fish could have stayed in the water longer to make more babies. You need to think about these things more, Carlito. No wasting food in any form.” 

The boy's features slump a little, and he mumbles out a disappointed, embarrassed apology to her in front of his friends. Then his expression surges back into excitement with the power of a new and sudden idea. “I could bring the fish to Señor Leon,” he suggests. “I bet he would like to have a fish for dinner tonight.”

Mags considers this slowly, Haymitch suspects a bit more slowly than necessary, to keep Carlos guessing. Then she smiles. “That is an excellent solution,” she pronounces. “And very thoughtful too. Señor Leon gets tired easily these days. You shall go to his house as soon as we get back to town. I think he will be very glad to see you with his dinner.” 

When they return to the house, most of the guests and all of the journalists have left, and Lucilla is talking the Mayor's ear off with suggestions about how she could improve Four's banquet next year with a more detailed array of eating utensils to address each type of food they had served. 

“After all, the media is always here filming this event, and you don't want your district to come across as backward,” she's telling the woman just as Haymitch intervenes. 

“Lucilla, don't you think we should be getting to bed?” he interrupts pointedly. “Early morning train ride and all, right?” 

She looks surprised, while Mags looks amused. The Mayor just looks grateful. “I suppose so,” Lucilla concedes, reluctantly rising from her chair and saying her good nights. Haymitch takes her arm, an unusually aggressive move for him with her, and leads her out of the banquet to their rooms upstairs on the second floor. 

“What has gotten into you?” she says with a touch of pleased wonder in her voice. “You’re not usually this assertive. You usually just let me and the prep team lead you around everywhere like you couldn’t care less. Did something happen between you and Mags?” 

Aware of the bugs everywhere, Haymitch fights to keep the tiny panic from rising within him. “Nothing happened,” he tries to say as smoothly as possible. The last thing either he or Mags needs is for Lucilla’s oblivious remark to get a thought going in Snow’s head.

She wrinkles her nose. “Well, don’t let her bully you.” 

He rolls his eyes a little. “You keep telling me that, everywhere we go.” 

“Not _everywhere_. Besides, Mags is a whole different class of intimidating. I wouldn’t have wanted to face her in the arena.” She gives a Capitol-style shudder of mock horror that she usually reserves for backward manners or ugly landscapes or unfortunate hairstyle choices. It usually makes Haymitch want to hit something. But tonight there has been talk of alliances and friends, and Lucilla's annoying behavior mostly rolls over him as he pulls her up the stairs, her incessant chattering a moving cloud of Capitol air traveling with them.

“You really should have had more of the lobster, Haymitch,” she admonishes as they make their way out to the car that's been sitting waiting for them all night. “It was totally to die for.”


	8. Chapter 8

They arrive in District Three, and as usual, there is no victor there to greet them, only the Mayor, a balding man in his forties wearing a suit and tie and a crisply starched white shirt. His three assistants walk with him with varying degrees of interest and deference. The woman is introduced to Haymitch as the Mayor's chief of staff. The two men are not introduced at all. Glaringly not here is Three's most current victor, Beetee Latier, whom Lucilla has said will be present at the banquet.

He thinks of Mags and her warning that Snow has told all the victors not to talk to him. He'll be lucky to get two sentences out of Latier.

District Three’s mayor, Timothy Robinson, walks with long, brisk strides, as if determined to get this over with. The Mayor’s assistants, all in tailored suits like him, keep their faces neutral. 

“We have some very nice accommodations here for the victors each year in the Justice Hall,” Robinson says blandly. “Not as nice as the Capitol of course, but we are the ones who invent all the mechanical marvels you surely experienced there, so we do all right.” 

“Those gadgets in the Capitol were pretty amazing,” Haymitch replies, just as blandly for the journalists’ cameras, which are following them every step of the way. He turns an obligatory gaze towards the skyline, where off in the distance, he can see actual small skyscrapers here that he hadn't noticed when they had been approaching the district, because he couldn't be bothered to look out the train windows. These are not the impossibly tall skyscrapers of the Capitol, but still impressive. There is also something like a train passing by in the distance, although it's running much, much slower than the Capitol trains do and is not as gleaming, but more plainly functionally gray. This district is the most modern district he's seen so far, and it seem even better off than Four. 

“The monorail brings our workers every day from their homes to the factories and the research buildings behind us, Mister Abernathy.” 

The Chief of Staff must have been following his eyes. She has short, slightly spiky dark hair, in a style that also seems immensely Capitol, but yet is far too tasteful for that. For starters, it's all one color, and not a blinding color at that. She's dressed smartly in a woman's version of the men's dress suits. When she points over her shoulder into the distance, he notices the brick and glass buildings arranged on either side of the city’s skyline.

“It is our honored task to provide the Capitol with the machines that make life easier and more enjoyable,” Robinson interjects with a stiff air that sounds rather rehearsed to Haymitch. “We have over 3,000 people alone working every day in those factories you see over there.” Haymitch idly wonders for how many years of journalist packs he’s said this, as Robinson gestures at the wide brick buildings, the ones all grouped on west side. 

“I'm sure it is your honored task,” Haymitch replies eventually, his tone just on the edge of sarcasm, as close as he dares. Even from this distance, the buildings look sparkling clean compared to the only brick building in District Twelve – an ancient, shabby governmental building where the bricks pop out every once in a while, and one can stick one's fingers into holes formed by missing mortar. 

“Wait, though,” he blurts out, distracted from his darkening mood by a sudden, surprising realization. “How can they be factories? There's no smoke coming out of their chimneys.” 

The statement comes out as an accusation without him meaning to. And in fact, as soon as the words come out of his mouth, it occurs to him that he has zero interest in discussing this. But oh well, he supposes he has nothing else to do until they reach the Justice Hall anyway, and well, great, he’s just played into the country bumpkin from District Twelve cliché, he realizes, as the journalists around him fail to hold back some muted titters at his ignorance. 

“Haymitch, of _course_ they're factories,” Lucilla admonishes, making it clear that she thinks he's being rude. It's the first thing she's said since they got off the train and she greeted the Mayor. “What else would those buildings be?” Haymitch does at least find it gratifying that she says this with the slightly uncertain air of someone who has only read a book about such things.

“There's no smoke because they're running on solar and wind power,” pipes up the Mayor's third assistant, who's been carrying around a clipboard the whole time and hasn't said a word since they met him and Lucilla at the train. Now that Haymitch notices him, he sees how he's much younger than the other ones. In fact, he seems only a few years older than Haymitch. He sizes the young man up anew: dark skin, dark, close-cropped hair that is obediently held in place, but would probably go wild and tangled if allowed to grow. The young man’s inquisitive eyes observe Haymitch through thick, black-framed glasses whose round shape vaguely remind him of miner's goggles, and the quirk of a smile on the man's lips makes him look like he is thinking of a private joke Haymitch isn't smart enough to fathom.

Or maybe he's just laughing at Haymitch, too backward to know about things like solar and wind power. 

“Mayor Robinson was actually the one to propose the idea of alternative power in District Three, back forty years ago,” he explains. “Thanks to his innovations, we were able reduce our use of precious Capitol coal stocks, which leaves more for the Capitol's increasing need as the years go by. And the virtually limitless accessibility of sun and wind power here in Three has allowed us to increase our productivity for the Capitol tenfold.” 

The young man then writes something down on his clipboard, turning away so Haymitch can't see his expression.An inexplicable feeling washes over him that maybe the young man isn't writing anything but scribbles down on that clipboard. All the while, Robinson keeps up a dutifully steady stream of patter about District Three inventions with Lucilla, along the lines of _Did you know we invented the ..._ until they reach the Justice Hall. 

The accommodations they lead Haymitch to are predictably luxurious, with dark red velvet and dark wood everywhere. The rugs are plush and woven into intricate decorations, and they take him to a spacious bedroom with all the usual luxuries – a large bed, a sumptuous and gleaming-white bathroom, the electronic meal menu in the wall, and a large, flat viewscreen as well, to watch the Games Channel and a few other entertainment channels broadcast from the Capitol. It's all pretty standard and boring by now, so as soon as they leave him alone, Haymitch takes refuge in the shower, where the water is of a welcome intensity and temperature. He spends a long time in there, pondering the intricate knobs and switches embedded into the tiled walls, wondering what life in a district like this is like, where they have luxury and education. He bets they even have lighting all twenty-four hours of the day.

He wanders back into the main room, his naked body wrapped in a soft, snow-white towel, and is so unusually relaxed by the warm water that it takes him a good ten seconds before he nearly jumps out of his skin: A silent figure is standing in his room, about five feet from the door.

The man standing there, whom he now finally recognizes as the Mayor's youngest assistant with the clipboard, silently holds up his finger to his mouth. With a broad grin, he gestures towards the clothes Haymitch had laid out for himself, curving his fingers in a repeated upward motion that orders Haymitch to put them on and be quick about it. He then returns the warning index finger to his lips. Haymitch is torn between outrage at the invasion of his privacy and curiosity as to where this will go. 

True to form, curiosity wins out. 

The man leads him out the door into the hallway and towards the elevator. Haymitch runs a hand through his wet, tousled hair as they enter, the assistant still issuing a warning to stay quiet. The elevator pulls upward all the way to the top floor with just a quiet imbalance in Haymitch's stomach. 

When the lit, numbered triangles above the elevator door show that they have reached the building's top floor, an unobtrusive chime rings out and the elevator stops. But the doors do not open until the man types in a code into a keypad. In the hallway, Haymitch sees that this entire floor is empty except for one door to one room. He can't imagine one room taking up this entire floor. 

But it basically does. One door, with no knob, just a hole inset into the wall to the left at face height. The man leading Haymitch pulls out from his pocket a small piece of some kind of film with an image on it that Haymitch can't quite see. He holds the film up close to the hole, which then makes the door open. They enter the room, and the door closes behind them of its own accord. 

“All right,” the man says with a loud exhale of accomplishment, with more than a touch of smugness. “Now we can talk.” 

One look around at this huge, luxurious room, and he realizes that it’s even more expansive than the Training Center accommodations both he and Maysilee were given to share in the Capitol. Who in District Three is important enough to warrant this kind of room? Mayor Robinson, possibly, but as Haymitch looks around, it's quickly obvious that this room isn't lived in. 

“Where are we?” he asks, leaving out the _fuck_ in his head out of some minor concession to politeness. “And who are you?” Haymitch demands, when the man still hasn’t replied. He wonders why he hasn't insisted on finding this out before he followed the man out of his room. Why has he been willing to go along with all this man's silent orders all the way to the top floor, to a room that's clearly off-limits? 

Right. Curiosity. Which killed the cat or whatever. 

“We are in the quarters,” crows the man, gesturing expansively around at all the open space, “reserved solely for the use of President Coriolanus Snow when he visits District Three.” 

For a second, Haymitch just gapes at him. “ _Shit_. Are you _serious_?” 

The man raises his eyebrows suggestively. “I couldn't be more serious. Wouldn't be any fun if it weren't the truth, now would it?”

“ _Fun_?” Haymitch chokes. “You realize that us just being in this room must break about twenty laws, right?”

“So?” the man leans against the wall near the door, looking fucking _jaunty_ standing there. “No one will ever know.”

Oh, they're so fucked. He just looks up at the ceiling and gestures wordlessly with his hands up there. The man watches him with a bemused expression, like he doesn't understand, but Haymitch knows he damn well does. “Oh fuck it,” he exclaims, dropping the pretense. “They know now!” He points up again at the ceiling, even though he can't see the bugs he knows must be there somewhere. 

But the man just shakes his head. “ _President Snow's_ quarters,” he repeats with a quirk of his lips. “Not a single bug in here.” 

Haymitch's forehead wrinkles. “You don’t know that!” 

“Well, if you were President Snow, would you bug your own quarters?” 

Scowling, Haymitch hedges a bit. “Maybe. If I wanted to record my conversations with other people in this room,” he challenges.

The man cocks his head. “Fair point. But I still win, because I know for a fact that there aren't any, because my father set up all the bugs in this building forty years ago, and maintained them ever since until it became _my_ job.” 

Haymitch's eyes widen, then narrow. How incredibly fucked-up to install and maintain the surveillance equipment the government uses to spy on you. “You mean you listen in on people for the Capitol?” he says with ready disgust.

“Nah,” he dismisses him with an eye roll. “The bugs relay everything to some listening station in the Capitol. They don't let me do _that_ part. Otherwise, there'd be no point, right?”

“But how can you be okay with doing that?” Haymitch blurts out, then stops himself, realizing for all he knows, the guy is a Capitol sympathizer. He works with the Mayor after all. Haymitch tells himself he should probably be shutting his mouth right about now.

But the man just shrugs, pushing his glasses back against his head. “Haymitch, in this world, saying yes to something you hate gives you the power to say no to other things you hate even more. Besides, I've done worse.” 

“Worse?” Haymitch echoes in surprise. “Like what?” 

“I think killing a bunch of children for the televised amusement of a bunch of social parasites ranks a little higher in the worse department,” he says, his tone suddenly stripped down. “Don’t you?”

“ _Oh_.” Haymitch looks away a second. Then it finally hits him. “You’re a victor?”

The man straightens up, practically puffing his chest out with mock, self-ironic pride. “Beetee Latier, 47th Hunger Games victor, at your service. I have to say, I'm a little wounded that you didn't recognize me right away.” 

“So you decided the thing to do about that was to sneak into my room while I was showering?” Haymitch retorts. 

“That was just for fun,” he shrugs. “And I got a very pleasing eyeful besides.” 

Haymitch notices a second too late that Beetee Latier, 47th Hunger Games victor, has just flirted with him. He has no idea what to think about that.

“Oh, you've got to be kidding,” he huffs, opting for a generalized defense until his brain can decide what to think. 

“Oh, I'm not kidding, Haymitch,” Beetee replies without a pause, this time very obviously looking Haymitch up and down with a lascivious air. It makes Haymitch feel downright weird and confused. “I don't kid about that.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were when you gave us that tour?” he demands, deciding for the moment to not think about the fact that another man has just implied that he’d like to have sex with him. Really, he thinks he might like to avoid that topic forever, because damn, a man in Twelve would pretty much gnaw his own leg off before he’d talk about anything to do with men having sex with men.

But Beetee doesn’t seem to let it go. 

“I wanted to size you up first, honestly. Wanted to see if you were as interesting as you looked on my viewscreen.” He lowers his voice slightly, as if he’s making a confession; except that it doesn’t feel like a confession, because Latier doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed to be admitting this: “I’ve kind of had a thing for you ever since your Games. But it occurred to me it could be just all physical.” He grins. “I needed to check out your brains in person.” 

“I ...” Haymitch begins, utterly flummoxed as to where to go next, and aware that his brains are not particularly on display right now besides. 

“I have a girlfr- ” He stops short. “I _had_ a girlfriend,” he finishes, his tone chagrined. Why does he keep doing that lately? 

But he sees Latier's eyes flicker with sympathy and gives thanks that maybe at least the man will now move off the subject of Haymitch's body, which Haymitch doesn't even want to think about himself. 

“Yes, I've been watching your Victory Tour, of course,” he says in a gentler tone, the smugness replaced for the moment with something more neutral, careful. “Alsey seemed very sweet.” 

“I loved her very much,” Haymitch says, then wonders why it felt like he _had_ to tell Latier that. But he appreciates that the man hasn't automatically started talking about her in pitying tones, like most people do, like his prep team does, like Keppler, like Caia. 

Latier just nods in return. “I'm sure you did, Haymitch,” he says, and nothing more. 

Haymitch's eyes, curse them, involuntarily glance at the excessively large bed in the middle of the room, then flash away, embarrassed. He sees the victor’s glance follow his, and blurts out before he can think to stop himself: “Why did you bring me here?” 

His body buzzes with a confusing mix of excitement and anxiety at the thought of what the man might answer. “I mean …” he falters after a moment, desperate to fill the awkward, empty silence. 

Latier finally speaks, after another excruciating pause. “Oh, did you think I brought you here to seduce you?” He says it with an air of disbelief that is finally something Haymitch recognizes – from when men back home, close friends, accidentally stumble into this sort of territory and need a way out. 

Now Latier would accuse Haymitch of misunderstanding him, with vague implications of being weird, and Haymitch would respond with a gruff denial without any heat, and then the entire awkward moment would be concluded, District Twelve style. 

“Haymitch, I like to show off, but I'm not crazy,” he says instead, with a slight roll of his eyes. “We'd never get the bed back the way it was. Besides: _Snow’s bed_.” He wrinkles his nose. “Seriously, ew.”

 _What_? “That's not what I meant!” he protests, feeling like the floor has just given way. 

“It's totally what you meant,” Beetee smirks, his words mild, unbothered. And, he suddenly realizes, just when and how did this man become _Beetee_ in his mind? 

“But nah, if you want to me to seduce you, I've got a much more private place in mind – also bugs-free. But you've got a meeting scheduled with your prep team in about forty minutes. Not nearly enough time.” The mischief in his eyes was already back, unsettling Haymitch's already shaky grasp on clear thought. “We'll talk more about it later. Right now, we should get you back to your room before your team arrives.” Beetee pauses and looks Haymitch over again with a loaded gaze. “Not that they need to do much,” he says with a wistful air, then seems to laugh at something, possibly himself. “Come on, let's go.” 

Again, Haymitch finds himself following this man he doesn't know at all through the Justice Hall and back to his room. As Haymitch fumbles in his pocket for the keycode to open the door, he feels Beetee's breath close to his ear, warm and so quiet to avoid the bugs, Haymitch has to strain to hear nonetheless. 

“I brought you there because I've been ordered not to talk to you. Also, after watching your Games, I thought you'd appreciate the chance to piss a little on Snow.” 

Haymitch punches the code into the keypad. The door opens in utter silence. “You _are_ crazy,” he whispers back.

“Maybe,” he says in a low voice. “I'm betting you'll come to like it though.” 

**

Capitol law states that every able-bodied, conscious citizen of sound mind living in the twelve districts of Panem has to watch the Hunger Games. But no one could exactly force you to pay attention. 

This year, Haymitch isn't. Nor is Mr. Burdock, who sits at the head of the classroom, just to the side of a large viewscreen blaring the 47th Hunger Games for the entire class to see, unobstructed. His heavy, clunky metal desk, with its gun-metal gray fixtures and uncomfortable chair, are a contrast to the large, modern monstrosity blaring the Hunger Games in from the Capitol in brilliant color and stereophonic sound. Their textbooks may be more than thirty years old, and their maps, and encyclopedias are probably heavily edited, and mostly about coal and being passive little district citizens anyway. But a large, modern viewscreen just like this one exists in every classroom, so that the children throughout the district are assured to have a comfortable (read: enforced) place from which to view the Games.

Haymitch, who has just recently turned fourteen, has beaten the odds three times already. At least when it comes to Reaping Day. In other areas? Well, all that luck had to even out somewhere, he supposes. He tries to ignore the dull, persistent aches all over his torso where his dad pummeled him yesterday afternoon when he tried for the umpteenth time to stop the drunken bastard from doing the same to his mom. 

He's oddly grateful for the timing of the Games this year, because it means he isn't obligated to concentrate on anything in class; with the pain, he doesn't think he could. 

Of course, Alsey's insistent tone, coming from the desk to the left of him and accompanied by an emphatic poke, isn't helping. “Haymitch,” she demands excitedly. “Are you _seeing_ this?”

He glances first up at Burdock, who is engrossed in a pile of homework papers, keeping only an occasional eye on the action on the screen, and an even less occasional eye on the classroom chatter. 

The rules say they have to stay three hours later in school during the Games, and they are not allowed to do anything but watch the broadcasts, so teachers take advantage of the down time to catch up on grading and correcting and other administrative tasks. Haymitch has had other teachers who were all about paying strict, unmitigated attention to the action (and one elementary school teacher who even used the tribute training scores as a math exercise), but everyone knows that Burdock lost a brother in the Games years before any of them were born, and so he lets them get away with socializing among themselves for the nine hours, as long as they keep their voices down enough that the bugs can't distinguish what they're saying, and as long as they transform into good little citizens whenever the principal stops by. 

“Am I seeing what?” he grouses absently at her. “There's nothing to see.” 

She smooths her hair back with one hand and sits up a little straighter. “Well this year there is,” she says. 

“What could there be?” he argues, making sure to keep his voice as low as hers. “Everyone knows Swagger March couldn't bring home a tribute, even if a sponsor sent them a rocket launcher, so what's the point?” 

“I'm not talking about Swagger's tributes,” she whispers back. “I'm talking about _him_.” 

Haymitch follows her finger pointing at the screen. It's focused right now on a thin (but not starving thin) young man, probably somewhere at the end of Reaping age, wearing a uniform with a “3” emblazoned on it. His muscles look underdeveloped to non-existent, so he can't be a career; but despite his advanced age, he looks like he hasn't worked a hard day in his life. 

“He doesn't look like your typical Three tribute,” he acknowledges with a mutter. District Three is known for producing strong, athletic, but not necessarily clever tributes, not like the Careers, who combine brawn with cultivated strategic minds. The Threes generally make Final Eight, sometimes even Final Four, but rarely last to the end. 

“I know!” Alsey's delighted interest pushes the pitch of her voice almost too high, threatening to break the general quiet hubbub. The two of them look up reflexively at Mr. Burdock and see he has indeed noticed them, and he puts a warning finger up to his lips. 

Despite his every resolve not to be interested, Alsey has pricked Haymitch’s curiosity, and he starts watching. It was inevitable anyway. He can't deny Alsey anything within his power to give for long. 

The weakling in wire-rimmed glasses has managed to pry open a portion of the piping on his uniform in order to get at the thin metal wire running along inside. He leaves it hanging for later use hanging on one side of his glasses frame as he huddles over one of the tribute pedestals near the Cornucopia, which has long since been stripped of goods and abandoned.

“What the hell is he doing?” Haymitch blurts out in surprise, caught up in the danger of it, despite himself. “There are mines under there.” 

“ _Language_ , Mr. Abernathy.” Burdock's sharp reproach flies across the room, but it is without teeth, and he immediately returns to his papers, and they return to watching the District Three tribute. 

“He's being _smart_ ,” declares Alsey. 

“He's being stupid if you ask me. He's going to get himself blown up.” 

“No, he's going to use that wire he pulled out of his uniform for something with that pedestal, just you watch.” 

“She's right,” murmurs Tom Saxton, sitting one seat behind Alsey in the same row. Tom is one of those boys who could think circles around his science and math teachers since he was ten, and everyone said it was a crying shame for him that he'd not been born in District Three or Five. “He's going to pull out the wiring under that pedestal and connect up something useful.” 

“Okay,” Haymitch replies, not feeling any more enlightened. “Like what?” 

“I don't know, but he's got an idea,” Alsey insists, like that's the best thing she's heard of in her whole life. She takes a furtive look around before she speaks again, not wanting to insult someone in the room who might be a sibling or a friend to Twelve's already-dead tributes. “It'd be nice to see someone in there winning with brains.”

“Such an intelligent win, Beetee. Just absolutely unique.”

The voice that overtakes Haymitch's senses and wakes him up from his daydream belongs to yet another Capitol journalist whose name Haymitch has momentarily forgotten in his reverie. He comes to, trying not to show his confusion, but it's unnecessary since …. since … _Nevil Laurenti_ , he remembers in a flash of relief, has been focusing for the last several minutes on showing highlights of Beetee's victory a few years ago, which apparently he accomplished by electrocuting a large number of remaining tributes. He doesn't remember the details. 

“Why thank you, Nevil.” Beetee's voice sounds smooth and in control, just like it had in Snow's opulent quarters, and listening to it, Haymitch feels a new twinge of the same awkward confusion he'd felt earlier today. 

“As someone who was a engineering major at University, I always have appreciated the way you won your Games, even though most Games polls show that the majority of Panem has never understood it,” Laurenti continues. His tone is almost intimate, as if he and Beetee are part of an extended family of geniuses who know they must stick together, because no one else understands them. When Haymitch dares to look over at Beetee again, Beetee notices immediately, and locks their gazes together. As before, it is too intensely probing for comfort. Haymitch feels his stomach leap in about four different directions at once. 

What the hell is going on here? Is he _attracted to Beetee Latier_? He can't be, can he? He's never felt an attraction to a man before. But what other explanation is there for this feeling every time Beetee looks at him, for the way his senses tend to retract into tunnel vision? He can feel his body swaying just slightly in his chair even now, at the undeniable sense of someone _wanting_ him. 

He's never felt that, not even exactly with Alsey, who he knew loved him; but it always kind of felt like she was doing something noble, loving the school outcast, the boy who got report cards with words like “sullen” on them, who the other kids in class thought was weird or snobbish. And he always felt lucky for Alsey’s kisses, and for those moments behind her parents’ house where they fumbled underneath dresses and shirts. But he never felt this kind of raw, dizzying need. The realization disturbs him. 

He shakes the feeling off and tries to concentrate on Laurenti, who has apparently picked up on some sort of chemistry going on between Beetee and Haymitch, because he suddenly wants the two of them talking.

“So Haymitch, Beetee,” he says with an air of mischief. “Both of you were pretty non-traditional Games tributes in your own ways.” _Oh fuck_ , Haymitch thinks desperately. _You're not really going to talk about the force field, are you? Are you trying to get us both killed?_

But Laurenti skirts the problematic topic handily by not getting at all specific, relying on everyone having known what they saw, he supposes, even if they'll probably forget all about it by next year. 

“Pretty untraditional wins for both your districts, boys,” he says conversationally. “Three tends to use brawns as a strategy, while Twelve … well, no offense to your district, Haymitch, but Swagger wasn't exactly pumping out the victors, was he?” 

The audience titters briefly, and Haymitch is surprised at the white-hot anger on Swagger's behalf that passes through him like lightning. How dare he humiliate a dead man like that? 

“Swagger was a good man,” he nearly stutters out a defense, all the while thanking fate that these interviews aren't compulsory viewing back home and so almost no one watches. “He faced a lot of obstacles to winning.”

“He taught me a lot, actually,” Beetee chimes in with what Haymitch is sure must be a lie. He can't imagine someone like Beetee taking advice from anyone he didn't think of as an intellectual equal. But Beetee continues to elaborate: “My first year in Mentor Central last year, he showed me the ropes. He was a great help.” 

Sensing the mood changing, Laurenti nods with overdone agreement. “Well, I'm sure we'll be seeing the fruits of that help soon then, Beetee,” he says. “Did you know that the average mentor brings home his or her first victor in his third Hunger Games?”

Beetee just laughs, letting the pointed remark roll right off him, even manufacturing a smug grin for the cameras. “And I’m on my fourth, right, Nevil? Well, I think that figure is probably a bit skewed by the number of winning tributes from Districts One and Two, don’t you? No pressure, though, hm?” He makes it sound like a jocular dare to Laurenti, and by extension, the Capitol viewers, to try and make him care about their opinion of him. He cocks his head towards the audience, as if to connect directly with them, but actually, his eyes are locking with Haymitch's and once again, Haymitch feels a wave of something he doesn't understand that buzzes all his nerve endings. He forces himself to stare back at the man, as if in defiance, although he's not sure what he's defying. 

Beetee just smiles, his eyes full of knowing mischief.


	9. Chapter 9

At the victory banquet, they seat Haymitch at a table placed at the head of the reception room. He sits there like President Snow himself, with everyone coming to him to offer congratulations, to present tokens from the district, to request autographs, which he still finds incredibly weird – that anyone would suddenly value his signature. 

Everyone important in the district is there, with one glaring exception that no one is talking about – District Three’s most recent victor.

“What?” he groans, as Lucilla turns in her seat and calls his name out of the blue, after a couple hours of pretty much ignoring him in favor of catching up on District Three gossip or something. Haymitch hadn't bothered to pay attention, still thinking about his conversation earlier with Beetee and the way that he stared at Haymitch during the interview. 

“Nevil Laurenti is waving at you, go talk to him,” she orders, her bright pink fingernail pointing in a southeasterly direction after making a slight adjustment to her wig, which is dyed in exactly the same shade as her nails. It’s all the color of this emetic Haymitch once saw people drinking in the men’s room at a sponsor’s party that Lucilla made him attend. It had made them all throw up in less than thirty seconds. 

“I already talked to him for two hours on camera, tonight,” he complains, still burning over Laurenti’s crack about District Twelve and Swagger. “What else could we possibly have to say to each other?” 

She sighs heavily. “He's been the District Three interview host for years, and the victors here have him solidly in their corner, so for him to make overtures to you while in their district is a huge compliment. If you don't go over there now after he's called you publicly like that, you'll make an enemy out of him.” 

He must look as unconvinced as he feels, because she feels compelled to add, “And unlike Caia Moulton, he actually listened to me when I mandated that he not ask you about your girlfriend, so you at least owe him thanks for that. Plus, he likes you,” she concludes. “You'll need him next year when you're a mentor and you're networking for sponsors. He knows a lot of people in the Capitol you could afford to be introduced to.”

His lips press together in a taut, thin line of acquiescence, cursing Lucilla for having reminded him of mentoring, the last thing he wants to be thinking about. But he drags himself out of the mammoth chair that was starting to make his legs go numb anyway and tries to reconfigure his face into something presentable before turning to his escort. “Do I look happy?” he asks her genuinely, although there's still enough buried anger in his voice that Lucilla's expression screws up with displeasure. 

“Just try not to insult him,” she sighs, like she's given up on him. He keeps the smile plastered on his face anyway as he sits down next to Laurenti, because he's got nothing better. 

“Mister Laurenti,” he tries to say with a hint of that lilt in his voice all Capitol residents seem to have in spades. He feels like an incompetent whore. 

“Please,” the man replies, making it look easy. “Do call me Nevil. All my friends do.” 

Haymitch just stops himself from raising a dubious eyebrow in front of the man. 

“Friends?” he manages weakly, hating himself already. “So I can call on you during next year's Games as a sponsor?”

“Oh, you can call, my dear Haymitch,” he replies jovially. “But let's not get the horse out of the paddock before the race has started, all right?” 

_Shit. Now he thinks I’m desperate._ Which, of course, he is.

“I can call you Haymitch, right?” It’s clear from Laurenti’s inflection that there was never any doubt in his mind that he could. 

“Of course you can.” He adds self-consciously, “Nevil.” 

This fake familiarity seems like a small concession to make, if this man is the key to getting District Twelve some sponsorship money. He wishes for the millionth time that Swagger were around to help him figure out this mentoring thing. What is he going to do next year when he’s competing for sponsors against all those other mentors who know what they’re doing? 

“Well, Haymitch,” Laurenti concludes with a meaningful smile, “I'd certainly be interested in discussing our options when you're in the Capitol next year. Perhaps over drinks?” 

This is going far better than expected. He hasn't really done anything, hasn't even been paying full attention. He suppresses the urge to shrug awkwardly. “Uh, sure,” he says, kicking himself for sounding like the backwater kid from District 12 he is. But he’s determined to start next year with at least one useful notch on his mentor belt. “Of course, Nevil,” he revises, the man's odd name rolling off his tongue a little easier. “I'd like that.” 

“Excellent,” Laurenti smiles. “I'll just arrange it all through Victor Affairs once you get into the Capitol. I look forward to it. I think with a little work, the two of us could become friends, couldn’t we?”

Haymitch nods uncertainly, knowing he should probably make more small talk, but he's shit at such things, and has no idea what to say next. Laurenti is at ease enough for both of them however, and starts talking again about something that Haymitch can’t help but tune out. 

_Friends_. He’s never really had a friend, other than Jackson, who was his brother so that didn't count, and then well, Alsey, who _was_ a lot like a friend, because she knew everything about him. But Haymitch kissed her sometimes, and that made it different. He remembers when his mom found out and started referring happily to Alsey as “your girl.” 

He sometimes has wished for a male friend like Alsey, someone who knew everything about him like that. A guy to spend a lot of time with, like old Mal and Declan back home do. 

Mal and Declan grew up together – best friends, their families neighbors on the edge of the Seam. You almost never saw those two apart, ever. They'd even moved in together when they'd hit their fifties, having outlived both their families and their capacity to work in the mines anymore. People always used to joke that any woman who married Mal or Declan would have to get married to both of them, for no woman would ever get between that friendship anyway. 

They showed up regularly in the Hob, shopping together, finishing each other's sentences as they’d bicker over buying food and supplies. As a boy, he'd sometimes wonder what it was like to be that connected to another male like that. 

But now, thoughts of Beetee fresh in his mind, the realization suddenly hits him: Mal and Declan aren't friends. Well, they're friends, definitely, but they're also a damn couple. Like Flax and Melio in District Eleven. It's perfectly obvious, now that he thinks about it. In fact, it's undeniable if you just _look_. But he's never allowed himself to.

He can’t want that, can he? Is that why he feels his nerves jangling every time Beetee looks at him? The question occurs to him with amazement and maybe a tinge of fear? 

What does it mean about Alsey?

He has to work to stop himself from jumping a mile straight up when Laurenti breaks his thoughts, with an unexpected hand grabbing his. Haymitch doesn't want to touch this peacock, but he can tell that he has to, or else risk insulting him. He unconsciously bites his lip as he lets the man invade his space. 

“You know,” he can’t help saying, hoping it’ll make Laurenti laugh instead of angry, “we victors didn’t win by letting someone take us unawares.” He shrugs at Laurenti’s warm, moist hand meaningfully, but he doesn’t shake it off like he really wants to. 

“Point taken!” he says with indulgent delight, like Haymitch is a housecat that’s just shown its claws. “Don’t worry,” he adds, his tone still rife with amusement, as his hands stay right where they are. “I plan for you to be quite aware the next time I do that.” 

In fact, Laurenti’s fingers move suggestively around Haymitch’s hand, and Haymitch feels a shot of alarm go through him, but then he realizes that Laurenti is not feeling him up, but pressing something very discreetly into his palm. 

“A gift for you,” he whispers, his face altogether too close to Haymitch’s. “From someone who couldn’t be here. I should be jealous, but I suppose you're allowed a couple of flings before your schedule gets entirely filled up.” 

His voice is still so conspiratorially low, Haymitch doubts for a second that any of this moment was even real. But then, as if to prove to him that it was, Laurenti squeezes Haymitch's hand closed into a fist around the note, leans back in his chair. He flicks his eyes suggestively towards the room's entrance. “A little naughtiness every now and then is needed in these times,” he concludes.

Haymitch blinks at him, eyes narrowed with bewilderment. 

“ _Top secret,_ , Laurenti mouths at him, followed by a wink, then a magnanimous wave. “Go have fun, now. I'll see you in six months.” 

So Haymitch stumbles away, his fist still closed tight on the paper, dying of curiosity as he heads back towards his table, where Lucilla is in some animated conversation with Lenta. He wants no part of it. Searching the room for ideas, he eventually turns on his heel and walks up to the buffet table and pretends to have trouble choosing which dish to sample next as he discreetly opens the small note in his palm. 

_To follow the trail, start by looking outside the arena._

That's all it says. His gaze searches the room for the man he knows must not be here anymore, but has escaped to the bugs-free place he'd referred to earlier this afternoon. 

Follow the trail. What trail? How is he supposed to find it? And trail to what? 

He thinks for a moment about Beetee's use of the word “arena”. Obviously there's no arena here, so what would he mean by that? He shuffles back towards his table to Lucilla and plops down in his seat with a distracted air. 

“Well?” Lucilla interrogates him. “What did he say?”

“Who?” Haymitch asks, fingering the note hidden in his palm. 

“Laurenti, of course!” Lucilla exclaims, her voice quickly ratcheting down to an exasperated hiss. “What did he want?” 

“Oh, um, I don't know exactly. He invited me to have drinks with him next year during the Games.” 

Lucilla doesn't quite manage to suppress an excited gasp. “Haymitch, that's wonderful!” 

“Yeah?” He keeps the conversation going, but he's searching the room, trying to understand what Beetee meant. 

“Of course!” she retorts, with a tone that suggests either she's insulted or he's inconceivably clueless. 

“Don't you see? He's making a very overt show of favor, and he's basically promising to promote you next year during the Games. Why else would he want to talk to you then?” 

Haymitch finally turns his head to her again. “Maybe. I dunno. He just invited me for drinks. I mean, we didn't even make a plan. He just said he'd call some people, some office, I think, to set it up. I wouldn't get your hopes up; he might not have really meant it.” _He might be drunk right now_. 

“Victor Affairs,” she supplies the name in a clipped tone. “You need to know these things, Haymitch, if you're going to succeed next year.” 

She gazes at him thoughtfully. “You know, we have two more districts to visit. I think we should probably start to have some tutoring sessions on the train rides. You don't have a mentor living with you in Twelve, which means once I'm gone, you'll have no one to prepare you for next year when you start guiding tributes. I don’t know everything about it, but I can give you some guidance on the basics …” 

Haymitch shuts his brain off as she starts to lecture him about his new “learning curve” –whatever that means. He just doesn't want to even think about mentoring. And he really doesn't need Lucilla harping on the topic right now, not after yet another day of being surrounded by people who have to hear just the right thing all the time and whom he can't ever get mad at. And they all want something from him. It's all a little like being in the arena, where people pretend to be your allies and then without warning, can suddenly become … 

_The arena_. 

Of course. That's what the note meant. This is the arena. Get out of the arena. The excitement sets his heart pounding. And then, more abruptly than he meant to, Haymitch bolts up out of his chair. 

“Where are you going?” Lucilla protests. “I'm talking to you!”

“I suddenly don't feel well.” His voice is quick, and distracted and probably not all that convincing. But he is moving too fast out of the room for her to make an effective countermove. “I'm going to find a place in here to get some air.” He turns away so she can't engage him. “I'll see you back in the room, all right?” 

Before Lucilla can do anything substantial, he's already outside the banquet room and back in the entrance hall, looking around everywhere for the sign he knows must be there somewhere, telling him where to go. It takes him a few moments to notice the out-of-place Peacekeeper on the wide marble staircase, a few steps up, rubbing at something on the white walls with a rag and a bucket. He walks over to examine what she's doing. He sees from her profile how the woman's face is carved with supreme annoyance.

“What's going on?” he inquires. 

The Peacekeeper whirls around, startled. She can't be more than a year or two older than Haymitch. 

“Nothing, sir,” she says grimly, seeming to have fallen back on the rule that refusing to explain anything much is always the best policy. “It's nothing a little soap and water can't take away.” 

“Who drew that?” The Peacekeeper is making slow progress at what looks like a chalk drawing of a huge arrow that points right and curves upward, as if to point the way up those marble stairs.

“Heck if I know,” the guard shrugs, eyes settling back onto her task. “But whoever did it, they didn't use chalk, I'll tell you that much.” She examines the gray, swirling mess she's made with the water staining the walls. “It's like they used charcoal or something.” 

At that, a smile overtakes Haymitch's entire face. He says nothing further, but begins running up the stairs, eyes peeled for the next sign on the trail, jittery with both excitement and uncertainty He doesn't know what the fuck he is doing. 

He makes it up to the landing on the top floor of the building before he spots another one, this time, an absurd stick figure with slits for eyes that make it look sleepy, smoking a very thick cigarette, or possibly a cigar. Haymitch gazes at it puzzled for a moment, until it occurs to him that what he took at first to be a rendering of sparking ashes from the thing in its mouth actually is a series of small arrow heads, all pointing in the same direction, to the left. He follows it, hoping he's understood correctly. 

The signs come again, much more quickly now. This time, it's a nonsensical bunch of letters and numbers, painted on a door in the same black dust. He stares at the mumbo-jumbo for a second, confused, but opens the door anyway and he sees an exit to a set of ugly, white concrete stairs that lead further upward. Huh. He thought he was already as high up as this building goes. 

It's only as he's climbing the stairs that he finally remembers where he's seen that jumble of letters and numbers before, and he shakes his head, chuckling. He had to memorize that string of letters and numbers in school when he was ten. In a rare streak of almost fun, his teacher, Miss Hawthorne, had made them learn a song to help them commit it to memory: 

It's the chemical formula for coal. 

The rest of the signs are even funnier. The first, on a door out the stairwell that leads Haymitch back again into the heart of the building and into a much smaller hallway that only takes up half the floor space, is the most intricate drawing yet, of a stick figure wearing something on its head and standing inside some rectangular thing with crudely-drawn wheels. He laughs out loud this time: he's looking at Beetee's representation of Haymitch in his chariot and stupid miner's headlamp in the Tribute Parade. 

He presses on, his anxiety over this meeting diminishing. 

A drawing of him on a wall in the ridiculous cape they'd made him wear for his victory interview with Flickerman is only slightly less funny than the stick figure of Flickerman himself, who is looking dramatically at the ceiling in a strangely accurate rendering, his childishly-drawn, wide-open mouth taking up more than half his face. Stick-figure Haymitch's long cape, as if fluttering in a non-existent wind, is shaped in an obvious arrow pointing the way around the corner and down the hall. 

The final door bears a last stick figure, this one of Haymitch with the victory crown around his head, arms raised up in the air, as if in triumph. At his feet, another stick figure lies on the ground, with two X's for eyes. His grin falls away, though, as soon as he sees the tiny representation of an ax embedded in the dead stick figure's chest, which is also wearing a crown, one much larger than Haymitch's. 

He's pretty sure he knows who that figure is supposed to be. If anyone ever finds it, they'll probably both be dead. 

He creaks the door open and steps halfway inside. 

“Forget crazy,” he tells the District 3 victor waiting for him inside, on an old wicker chair towards the back of the modest, windowless room. “You just left crazy a thousand kilometers ago,” he grunts. “You’re downright insane.”

“Eh, don't worry about it,” Beetee smirks, looking pleased with himself. “It'll be a day or two before anyone would notice all the drawings up here. By then, I'll have washed them off.” 

“What is this room, anyway?”

Beetee shrugs. “A room nobody remembers, just under the attic. Most importantly,” he spreads his arms wide, “a room no one has ever thought to bug.” 

Haymitch's eyebrows rise. “But someone lives here?” he asks, casting an eye towards the rough-hewn wooden chest of drawers, the matching tiny wardrobe, the writing desk and the bed stripped of sheets. The dark-stained floor is made of wide, scuffed, wooden planks with deep grooves on them that have warped the floor over time, so that it creaks as Haymitch walks fully inside and closes the door. 

“Nah, not anymore,” Beetee says, unconcerned. “I think this used to be the janitor's quarters or something, but nobody's used it in years now. Nor bugged it.” He shrugs. “Whiskey?” He pulls out a bottle from under his chair and extends it towards Haymitch with a smirk. 

Haymitch shakes his head. “I don't drink,” he says, and Beetee makes a chagrined face, but then shrugs and puts it back under the chair. 

“So listen,” Haymitch begins abruptly, before the other victor can say something again, “I don't know why you've led me here, but ...” 

“You know exactly why,” Beetee cuts him off with mock reproach. “We talked about it in Snow's quarters. Don't act like you don't remember that.” He grins, his voice turning just a bit sultry. “I’m counting on you remembering that.” 

Startled, Haymitch defaults to a scowl, and turns his gaze to the wall. After a few very long moments of silence, he declares, “you want to fuck.” He's hoping to scare the other man off. But Beetee merely answers without embarrassment: 

“Yes. That was the general idea.” 

Haymitch exhales, as if he's been holding his breath for who knows how long. He struggles for something to say, then finally gives up. “Why?” he asks. He still won't look; it’s too awkward to look. 

“Why?” Beetee echoes, his voice pitching upwards, like it's the last question he expected.  
“Because it'd be fun?” he offers. “They do have fun over there in Twelve, right? Or has Snow taken that privilege away from you poor folk too?” 

When he looks, Beetee is staring at him with a shit-eating grin. He has no right to look so damn confident in this situation when Haymitch feels so lost.

“Oh, listen: why don't you go fuck yourself?” he snarls, secretly enjoying how the smug expression on Beetee's face falls away, like he wasn't expecting Haymitch to snap back at him like that. It's nice to get the jump on this guy for once. 

“I'd rather fuck _you_ ,” Beetee recovers quickly. 

Haymitch blinks and stares at him a long moment. “Aw, shit, Latier ...” he begins, but Beetee is already up in his personal space, warm breath on his skin, a possessive grip on his shoulders. The unexpected physical contact makes his heartbeat feel like it's pounding out of his chest. It's a little like a moment back home, when you know a guy is just about to throw a punch at you; but obviously, that's not what Beetee has in mind here. 

“Why are you even ...” he trails off with a growl, but it's a bit of a helpless gesture. He doesn't move either. 

“Why do you think?” It's actually fun the way Beetee rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, even though Haymitch can tell everything the man does is always in part to amuse himself. “Because you're hot. I've thought so since your Games.” 

He reaches out to pull Haymitch's chin towards him. “Not many people impress me. I find it kind of a turn-on.” 

That does it. Haymitch can feel the heat prickling up his neck, flushing his cheekbones.

He feels himself being led the last inch or two left to cross, straight into a hard, possessive kiss. He doesn't even remember giving in to Beetee's exploratory tongue pushing apart his lips, doesn't remember responding with his own tongue, just realizes he's there, the two of them are going at each other like a couple of kids in the bushes.

Their mouths are hot and frantic, each trying to take control of the kissing, caught in a stalemate that neither of them seems to mind. In between gulps of air, Haymitch feels Beetee hard against his thigh and notices that he's just as turned on by this, when he should be scared out of his mind, and somehow, it is this that awakens him to what they are doing. 

He yanks away his mouth, and they just stare at each other, their faces close enough to still hear each other's breathing. 

“What?” Beetee's eyebrows raise, as if daring Haymitch, as if he think this is all hilarious. “Never kissed a guy before?” 

Haymitch looks at him, incredulous. “With who?” His voice is more husky than he'd intended. “Thirteen's smoking ashes, Latier, we just don't _do_ that sort of thing in Twelve.” 

“Well, somebody does, obviously,” Beetee says matter-of-factly.

“No!” Haymitch practically shouts at him. “Nobody does!” But his mind flashes to images of Mal and Declan, and the newfound realization that this is in fact a lie. 

“Oh come on,” Beetee challenges. “Are you telling me there's no one in all of Twelve who prefers sex with their own gender? You know that's statistically impossible, right? ” 

Haymitch's legs back him away from the man until his body finds the nearest wall for support. What he just did felt good, sure, he can't deny that, but he’s never had to consider whether he might ever be interested in this. 

“Admit it,” Beetee interrupts his thoughts. “You liked it. Come on, I felt your hard-on against my leg.”

Haymitch feels his body freeze. It would be a hell of an accusation in Twelve, and he has to remind himself that he’s not about to get the shit kicked out of him right now. 

“Yeah, and I felt yours!” he snaps, with residual defensiveness he can’t quite suppress. “What of it?” He waves his hand around in a helpless, confused gesture. “Look,” he tries, “just because I got ...” But he can't say the words _turned on_ or _hard_ to Beetee and have them hanging in the air between them; it's just too weird. He and Alsey never used words like that. 

“I …” he trails off, unable to lie. “Fuck.” 

A beat passes. 

“Well, give me some time, Haymitch. Nobody's _that_ good.”

“Oh, will you cut the crap _for just a fucking minute_ , Latier?” he roars. His shoulders curl inward. What the fuck? He just was kissing a _guy_ , by _choice_. 

“I need to figure this out,” he growls.

“Hey …” This time, Beetee’s tone is softer, as if being cautious with him, but out of kindness, not out of fear or awkwardness. 

“Haymitch,” he probes, “I'm sorry, all right? I really thought you'd like it.” When Haymitch doesn't answer, he adds, “You okay?” 

But Haymitch is thinking about old Mal and Declan again. Inside their home, where no one could see, they were kissing like this? Touching each other, getting hard off each other, like he and Beetee just did? He tries to picture them lying in a bed together.

“Haymitch?” he repeats, but Haymitch just slides down to the ground with his back against the wall, knees pulled up in front of him. 

“Of course I liked it,” he says in a small voice, forcing himself to keep the man's eye now. He at least owes him that, he supposes, after the guy put himself out there like that. “But … my _girlfriend_.” He almost chokes on it. 

Beetee's eyes grow pensive. 

“Are you afraid you'll be betraying her memory by being attracted to me?” he asks quietly. 

He smiles wanly. “No, it’s not like that. She’s … she's dead. He swallows an abrupt sob. 

“She's dead,” he repeats quietly. “She wouldn't get mad about me sleeping with you after she's gone. She'd want me to be happy. Besides, she always thought you were the bee's knees.” 

“She what?” Beetee says, apparently not recognizing the Twelve expression. 

“She saw your Games,” Haymitch explains. “Was a big fan of how you won with your extra special brains.” 

He realizes too late he's given Beetee an opening for another round of annoying boasting about his genius brain. But Beetee just turns his back to the same wall as Haymitch and slides down onto the floor next to him. He raises his arm slowly towards Haymitch’s shoulders, a courteous warning. “Do you mind?” 

Haymitch just shakes his head as he lets Beetee’s arm curl around him. They sit there in silence.

“Actually, she'd laugh her ass off at the idea.” he says.

“What idea?” 

“Of us. Us sleeping together.” 

“Oh.” A pause. “Don’t tell me that’s the best seduction line you’ve got?” 

But there's not the same heat behind Beetee’s gaze as before, just an amused twinkle in his eyes. Haymitch can't believe the words are coming out of his mouth, but he says them anyway:

“Could we just lie on the bed together a while?” he asks, a bit terrified, but telling himself, _You survived nearly getting your fucking intestines ripped out of your body, you can handle this_. He really wants to touch Beetee.

The silence as Beetee examines him is so long, Haymitch has to fight off a rising wave of slight, panicked embarrassment. What if he’s changed his mind? But then the arm around him tightens and prods him onto his feet, and Beetee leads him over to the bed without a word. He seems to be waiting for Haymitch to make the first move onto the bed itself, but Haymitch can't make himself, just stands there looking down at the bare mattress, Beetee's arm still around him. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Beetee asks him, the calm patience in his voice belied by an undertone of uncertainty, as if this wasn't at all what he bargained for when he lured Haymitch here tonight. And of course, how could it be?

“Yeah, I want this,” he grunts, closes his eyes in embarrassment and all in one movement, pulls Beetee down onto the bed, the way he used to jump straight into the lake back home, instead of wading in and gradually getting used to the icy-cold water. He hears a chuckle muffled into the mattress as Beetee adjusts his body into alignment with Haymitch, who is lying on his back. 

“Good.” Already Haymitch can’t remember whose voice it was that said that – his or Beetee’s. But Beetee is carefully putting Haymitch's hand in his and the two of them then stare at the ceiling a while, not saying anything at all, and it’s somehow exactly what Haymitch needs right now. Eventually, Haymitch turns to look at Beetee, who must notice that he’s done so, but continues to look up at the ceiling, and for once, makes no snappy comments. 

While he's not a Capitol fashion model or anything, Haymitch can't deny that Beetee is attractive, still fit from his Games – arms that are muscular, modest bulges showing through the arms of his suit jacket, a slim face, but it doesn't look half-starved like so many people in the Seam. His hair is dark and straight, but it hints at curls like Haymitch’s if only he would let his hair grow out more. His skin is much darker than Haymitch’s. 

When it becomes undeniable that Haymitch is openly staring at him, Beetee looks down and locks their eyes together, like he did on stage with Laurenti. But this time, Haymitch is drawn into those deep brown, almost black pools fastening onto him, and he turns fully on his side too, meeting Beetee with a steady gaze. 

“What?” Beetee eventually asks, more tentative than he usually does. Instead of answering, Haymitch surprises himself by reaching out to touch Beetee's chest. He doesn't dare do any more than experimentally run his fingers along the buttons of his shirt, but then Beetee grabs Haymitch's hand and takes a finger into his mouth, sucking with a lightness that feels strange and electric. He feels himself melt with it, and utters a completely unplanned grunt, until he realizes he's had his eyes closed for the last several seconds. When he opens them, Beetee is holding the fingers of his left hand in mid-  
air and searching his face for confirmation. 

_Is this all right?_ , his expression asks, and Haymitch nods his head _yes_ , because he's already finding himself addicted to the idea of Beetee touching him more. 

“Do the kissing thing again,” he says gruffly, to break the spell, and because he can't get himself to say it any other way without it sounding strange in his own ears.

Beetee chuckles, and some of his teasing lilt is back. “Well, if it's an order, then.” His voice has a slight, lazy slurring quality, and Haymitch feels the back of Beetee's knuckles trail along his cheek in an affectionate way. Then he's pulling his right arm out from under himself, a bit awkwardly, and makes a soft semi-circle around the crown of Haymitch's head, fingers landing on the back of his neck. His arm is soon fully around his body, and Haymitch is being tugged in closer, until Beetee's tongue is parting Haymitch's lips, taking possession of his mouth for several seconds until Haymitch even remembers that he can respond. 

It's not all that different than what he's experienced with Alsey, actually, except that Alsey was never this aggressive, never this obviously experienced; Haymitch isn't this experienced either, and he struggles to keep up, afraid of looking stupid, because his body is telling him that he really, really wants this to continue. He experiments with seeking out places in Beetee's mouth, trying to spark the same desire Beetee is making him feel, but the man is so determined, so sure about what he wants from Haymitch, that Haymitch eventually gives up and starts to relax under the kisses, and instead, starts investigating the rest of the man's body, possibilities occurring to him through the slow molasses of arousal his brain has become. He frees both his arms and wraps them around Beetee's back, tugging at the tail of his soft, cotton shirt, tucked neatly into his pants. He craves the feel of warm skin under his fingers, craves touch. 

He runs his hands under Beetee's liberated shirt, and lets his fingers wander along the man's spine, pausing to feel the outline of his back muscles, exploring as far down as he can in this position, daring to grab the man's ass and press their groins together, something he never, ever dared try with Alsey. He hears a satisfying, small gasp from Beetee, muffled by their mouths pressed together. Beetee pulls away for a moment to utter a throaty, whispered plea.

“Oh, do that again. _Please_.” 

Haymitch grunts, because the onslaught of kisses has been making his whole body feel weak with desire, and it’s work to not feel awkward about grabbing the man’s ass, as very much as he’s enjoying that. He pushes them together, this time his crotch grinding into Beetee's, riding out the kisses that way, feeling such an increase of pressure in his groin, so fast, it's almost staggering when Beetee starts undoing the collar of Haymitch's shirt, moving his lips downward, kissing his chin, then his neck, as the rest of the buttons of Haymitch's shirt come undone under Beetee's deft fingers. He shimmies the rumpled thing off Haymitch's arms and onto the bed as he runs his hands up the sides of Haymitch's body, sending more jolts of electricity coursing through him. Haymitch's head falls back and he lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched moan, but it's all getting too much, too fast, for him to care. He's a bundle of pinpointing desire all over, and he's never felt turned on like this before, never with his whole body like this. 

Which is probably why he hasn't noticed until now that Beetee has managed to undo his belt and his pants, and has got them half off his ass. It takes him only a second later to panic.

“No, I can't!” he shouts, placing a firm hand onto Beetee's shoulder to push him away. “Wait, wait!” 

To his credit, Beetee stops immediately. In fact, he freezes, his hands still fisted in a piece of the satin black trousers Haymitch’s team made him wear tonight. They both sit up on the bed, Beetee's eyes oddly wide with what looks to Haymitch like fear, or maybe worry. 

“What is it? Something I did?” He really does sound like Haymitch has scared him half to death as he jumps off the bed, like he’s trying to give Haymitch space. “Did I do something wrong? Are you all right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay,” Haymitch exhales deeply, feeling terribly embarrassed now. He stands up to be closer to Beetee, to reassure him, even though his pants are still hanging off his body in a fairly undignified way. “You didn't do anything wrong. It's just … when you opened up my pants, I ...started thinking about ...” He doesn't know how to say it. 

Beetee's eyes search his with obvious concern that quickly turns to chagrin. “Oh, Haymitch,” he breathes. “Shit, already? Seriously? I'm really sorry. I had no idea.” 

“Had no idea about what?” Haymitch's confusion for the moment damps down his embarrassment. 

Beetee's eyes narrow. “So when you panicked,” he begins slowly, in an interrogatory tone. “That was because ...” 

“Because I don't know at all what I'm doing,” Haymitch admits, running a nervous hand over his head, through the stiff hairspray in his curls. “I mean, I've never had sex with a guy before. I don't know what comes next, or what to do.” 

The laughter falls out of Beetee like a tray of glasses smashing on the ground, discordant and with jagged gasps of amazement. “That's why you got upset?” 

“Look, I'm not an idiot,” Haymitch grumbles. “I’ve just never done this before. How am I supposed to know what to do?” 

There's a weak grin on Beetee's face now, like he still hasn't quite recovered. “No, no, you're right. Of course! That's perfectly sensible thinking, Haymitch. How would you know?” 

He pauses and takes Haymitch's face between his hands and examines him. “Let's be really clear on this, shall we? I don't want you to do anything you don't want to, got it? Anything you don't want, you tell me stop, and we stop, all right? That's very important to me.” 

“Well, of course,” Haymitch says, bewildered at the question. “Why wouldn't I tell you?” 

Now it's Beetee's turn to look bewildered, but Haymitch can see him moving fast to cover. “Of course,” he agrees a little too strongly. “Of course you'd tell me. Because this is supposed to be fun, right?” 

Haymitch nods. “Well, yeah,” he says, since nothing could be more obvious. There's something definitely odd about Beetee's reaction. “A9re you getting at something?” 

He watches him take in a deep breath, then turn and exhale it. “Later, all right? At the moment, I don't want to distract from this lovely time we're having.” The smug, bantering Beetee is already making a quick comeback. “And as for your inexperience in these matters ...” The teasing grin on his face has already completely smoothed over any rough edges in his demeanor a minute ago. “I'll explain as we go, right?” 

Haymitch raises his eyebrows at him as he stands up. “Only if your pants are off too.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Haymitch grunts under his breath with embarrassment, but on this point, he's adamant: “I'm not gonna be the only one with his pants down,” he declares.

The way the man is pursing his lips, it's clear that he's trying to suppress a laugh. But then he stands up straight, radiating a sober expression that Haymitch doesn’t quite believe. “An excellent principle in this sort of situation,” he affirms. 

“Are you making fun of me?” Haymitch accuses, ready to be annoyed.

He blinks in surprise. “No, not at all. Not at all.” And he’s so genuine, Haymitch does believes that right away. “Indeed, you make a very good point.” 

“Well, then?” he casts a meaningful glance downward at Beetee’s pants. He's treated to another of Beetee's chuckles, but without another word, the man is making off with clothes. Once Haymitch can see that he's serious, he takes off the rest of his own clothes, and in less than a minute, the two of them are facing each other, naked as the day they were born. 

“So, now what?” Haymitch almost says, when the silence between them turns good and awkward, but new to this or not, he's not going to let himself look completely like a helpless idiot, so he makes the first move and gets good and close to Beetee again, trying out on him the one thing he knows he likes doing to himself. 

Still, he can't help how tentatively he reaches out to take the man's erect dick in his hand. But as he starts to stroke it back and forth, learning the curves of it, finding the spots that make Beetee respond with something between a moan and a sigh, Haymitch feels his mouth curve into a pleased smile. He uses his other hand to grab Beetee's ass again, deciding he definitely likes that. As he'd hoped, Beetee makes a hissing sound of enjoyment. 

“I think you lied to me,” Beetee says, taking Haymitch's dick in his hand too, “about never having done this before.” It’s a blatant lie, but Haymitch doesn’t care. The two of them stand there, their clothes in piles around them on the floor, stroking each other until it starts to feel so good, they slump into each other, too weak to stand upright. 

“Come on,” Beetee suggests. “Let's take this to the bed.” 

They expand into new territory, mixing the hot, sloppy exploration of each other's mouths with hands learning all the spots on each others' bodies – which to graze lightly or which to manhandle, which to suck on or to grab. They make each other cry out, moan, demand more. Haymitch learns fast that Beetee likes having his nipples rubbed with Haymitch’s index finger and that he likes it when Haymitch grinds their hips together. He wraps a leg around Haymitch's groin and pulls the lower half of his body in close and squeezes them together, their dicks rubbing up against each other in very satisfying friction. As they thrust at each other, Beetee hisses, “yesss” over and over in his ear, and _that_ elicits desperate moans from Haymitch himself. At some point, he realizes he’s stopped thinking about the fact that this is a guy getting him off like this, and he revels in all the naked skin there is for him to touch. 

And the certainty that the two of them are going to come very, very soon. 

When they do come, only a minute later, Beetee sighs deeply, face buried in Haymitch's chest. 

“I don't think technically, two guys giving each other handjobs is supposed to feel _that_ good. Fuck, Haymitch.” 

Haymitch's snort conveys surprise, amusement, but also a touch of pride. “Yeah, that was the general idea,” he deadpans. 

Beetee's head darts up with just a flicker of wide-eyed surprise, then gives him one of those grins that Haymitch is just starting to feel comfortable with calling 'hot’ in his head. When the man laughs, Haymitch feels infinitely powerful, to have brought that sound out of him. 

“Quoting my own words back at me, eh?” he teases. “ 'Clever Haymitch' indeed.” 

He feels warm and sweaty and blissfully exhausted. He hasn't felt this good in months, in fact. But the moniker threatens to ruin all of it. 

“Call me that again, and I'll clock you,” he mock-warns, reluctant to ruin the moment with a real warning. 

Beetee grins. “Done,” he says, then adds mischievously, “ _Clever Haymitch._ ”

Haymitch pushes away the growing discomfort. “You smug bastard,” he grouses, and lunges for Beetee, pinning him down under him, but the other victor squirms and tries to wriggle completely free, sending the two of them off the bed and crashing onto the floor. 

They both freeze. 

“Shit,” Haymitch says in a whisper. “Do you think anyone heard that?” 

Beetee's eyes dart nervously from side to side. “Nah. Probably not.” But his voice is less carefree now. 

“Still, Snow specifically warned all us victors not to make contact with you. So I'm pretty sure if I get caught fucking you, he'll have my ass, and I _really_ don't want to be in that position again.” 

“Again?”

Beetee looks away, grabbing his clothes from off the floor, wiping himself clean with a sock. “Never mind,” he says, throwing on his outfit. “Let me go check that the coast is clear. Get dressed, just in case anyone’s coming.” 

Haymitch hurriedly stumbles into his rumpled, hopelessly wrinkled formal wear, just barely keeping himself from falling in his haste. “We’re not going to be fooling anyone if they’re out there,” he hisses after Beetee, who is already standing impatiently at the door, waiting for Haymitch to finish.

Beetee waves off his protests, and opens the door in a tentative gesture, then throws himself out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. Haymitch stands in the middle of the sparse room, legs shifting back and forth, waiting. He knows rationally that only about sixty seconds have passed, but it feels a lot longer when Beetee pokes his head back in. 

“Yeah, we're fine,” he assures Haymitch. “But come up on the roof with me anyway.” 

Part of him is so sleepy from his orgasm, he just wants to crawl into bed. But he’s gone this far with the man already, and he isn't ready yet to stop being around him. 

“Okay.” He thrusts his hands in his pockets and follows Beetee out into the hallway.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his victory tour, Haymitch soon finds out that the real Games have only just begun, and survival means learning to spin out a web of lies and compromises. The Games' oldest living victor and arguably its most intelligent one show him that even in the tainted life of a Victor, there are still ways to prevail.
> 
> This chapter: Haymitch and Beetee get high on the roof of the Justice Building, and Haymitch learns from Beetee about the mentoring game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't updated this in forever, but I got a beautiful cover for my story for my birthday today, and I was inspired to start working on it again, since I'm so close to the last mile.

Beetee selects a spot smack dab in the center of the vast, empty brick-lined surface of the roof, that has the least visibility from the ground. 

“I think the Peacekeepers have better things to do than trying to look up at the rooftops,” he says with a grin, but just in case …” 

Now that they’re up here, Beetee is trying to play it all off like it was nothing, that they’re up here for no other reason than their own fun. But Haymitch can see how he’s being newly cautious, how he can’t quite hide a certain, subtle twitchiness. The confident, playful lilt in his voice hasn’t really returned since he went out into the hallway to check for Peacekeepers. 

He says little as they settle in, and then the two of them do nothing but continue to sit there for a while in silence. At first, Haymitch is content to marvel at all the lights on the skyline here – or even at the fact that they _have_ a skyline in this district, and a light-filled one at that. He wonders what it’s like to grow up here, though, in a fancy-pants district like this where the population isn’t walking around looking half-starved; where the light switches work twenty-four hours a day; and where people don’t have jobs that are going to kill them sooner or later. 

“You all right, Latier?” 

The man’s lips purse, and he blinks slowly, but he doesn’t avert his gaze from the nighttime sky. He nods. “Yeah, of course.” 

That’s bullshit, but Haymitch knows that whatever’s suddenly going on in Beetee’s head is something the man doesn’t want to talk about; and he also knows that if the situation were reversed, he wouldn’t want Beetee to push it either; so he doesn’t. They continue in companionable silence.

But after ten minutes, with no interaction at all, Haymitch starts to wonder what he’s doing up here. The novelty of the skyline is starting to wear off. “So you think we can go back down yet?” 

Beetee shrugs, eyes forward. “Do you really want to go back down there? To Laurenti? To your escort?” 

“Well, no. Not especially.” He crosses his arms over his chest and exhales a deep breath. “Listen, can I ask you something?” 

“You can ask,” Beetee’s voice stays totally even. 

“What did Snow threaten you with?” He never asked this question of Mags; she had seemed so confident about her ability to get around Snow. And up until a few minutes ago, he would have thought the same about Beetee. 

The question snaps Beetee into focused attention, like one of those motion-activated cameras they have on every square foot of the arena to ensure that the tributes never get a damn ounce of privacy. His expression when he looks at Haymitch is much more hard and closed off: “Threaten me with?” he says slowly.

“You said he told all you victors not to talk to me, right? He must have threatened you all with something.” 

Beetee shrugs in an overdone way, turning back to the skyline with an indifferent air, but Haymitch notices the tiny movements Beetee makes to inch away from their shared personal space. “He didn’t make any specific threats. He rarely does. People generally obey him before he gets that far.” 

“Look, I wasn’t going to ask,” Haymitch continues, “but you’ve looked good and spooked ever since you thought Snow might actually find out what we’re up to.”  
Does Beetee have living parents? He had mentioned a father. Did Snow threaten Beetee with the deaths of his parents? A brother or sister? A friend? 

Haymitch hears a sardonic chuckle in the back of his throat, then a small grunt of displeasure. “Just the usual shit,” he says, his hand dipping into his left jacket pocket, and withdrawing a small hand-rolled cigarette.

But if this is going to be Haymitch’s life as a victor now – with Snow showing up at his house on a regular basis to make him responsible for the lives of others – Haymitch wants to prepare himself for that, even if the thought does chill him to the bone. “I’m new to this victor stuff,” he says, making it like a sardonic joke. “So I’m not exactly up on ‘the usual shit.’ Maybe you could elaborate some on what that means?” 

Beetee rolls his eyes, like Haymitch’s question is impossibly naïve. “It isn’t any one thing, Haymitch,” he sighs. “Here in District 3, it’s everything.” He gestures out at the night. “Look at all we have here,” he murmurs. “I don’t fool myself into thinking that Snow can’t possibly take it all away. I grew up thinking I couldn’t be reaped, that even if somehow my name came up in that glass bowl, there would still be the volunteers to take my place. My whole life, people told me that I was too great a mind to be reaped, that it was worth everything my district had to keep me out of the Games. When I made it to college, set to graduate from Panem University at seventeen, I thought I had escaped it all.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while then, and Haymitch can’t think of a single thing that wouldn’t sound trite or hollow, or like it came out of Lucilla’s mouth. So he edges closer to Beetee and puts his hand in his. A rueful smile appears on Beetee’s face.

“Yes, well,” he says meaninglessly, his expression empty. “Nowadays, I know better. There’s always _something._ ” 

He lets go of Haymitch’s hand and digs into his right-hand pants pocket to produce a shiny metal lighter, the likes of which Haymitch hasn’t seen outside the Capitol. “Anyway, this is the most depressing post-coital talk ever. I’ve got a better idea.” He places the homemade cigarette between his lips and lights up. 

“Let’s get high instead,” he says, tone very deliberately brightening. 

A moment ago, Beetee sounded so morose, Haymitch thinks he should probably call him on his sudden shift in mood. But again, he knows better than to push a man too hard when he obviously doesn’t want to talk about his shit. 

“What is that?” His brow wrinkles. “Morphling?” 

“Morphling?” Beetee's disbelief does a terrible, manic job of repressing a grin. “You do know that one _shoots up_ morphling, right?” he teases. 

“Just because I’m not a genius District 3 victor …” Haymitch tries to cover over his embarrassment. “Liquor’s more our speed in Twelve,” he says pointedly.

“Yet you don’t touch it,” Beetee confirms in between puffs. 

He pauses, mulling over the decision, then shakes his head. “My father,” he reveals in a quiet voice. “One drunk in the family is enough, I reckon.” For the first time in weeks, he finds himself thinking about his father, wondering again how that man turned into the mess that Haymitch knows. 

“Well, this isn't liquor,” Beetee reasons. 

Haymitch's lips twists. “I dunno. I don't think I can afford anything that's going to make me stupider.” He experiments with a smirk. “What if I don't live up to your brains standards anymore?” he taunts. 

When he meets Beetee’s gaze, muscles in the man’s face twitch, and he shakes his head in mock annoyance. Then there's a nonchalant shrug. 

“Suit yourself. It’s a lot of fun though. Great stress reliever.” He pauses for effect. “Though it’s true I’ve already had a fine stress reliever this evening.” 

Haymitch rolls his eyes. 

“What'll it do to me?” he asks, pointing to the cigarette dangling between Beetee’s fingers.

Beetee’s eyes brighten with pleasure, apparently noting Haymitch's shift to the future tense. “Some people don’t feel anything, especially the first time they try it. But if you do, you’ll feel relaxed and a pretty detached for a while – an hour or less, depending on how much you smoke of it. Sometimes it makes you laugh too, which frankly, you could use.” Beetee’s playful lilt is returning as the drug apparently takes effect.

Haymitch has to admit, he can’t remember the last time he’s laughed before tonight. Some time long ago when he was with Alsey maybe, or with Jackson. Jackson could make him laugh without even realizing what he was doing. 

He wouldn’t mind laughing some more with Beetee. 

Beetee takes another long drag and blows it out loudly up into the air above them. “Your choice, of course,” he says to the horizon. “But I’ll tell you what: if I had to go back down there and deal with that escort of yours, I’d definitely take a drag or two.”

The way his lips curl up conspiratorially produces a snort from Haymitch, but inside, he feels something in him come loose. Lucilla – even though she saved his life – is still a Capitol citizen. And that everything that she stands for – everything that everyone downstairs stands for – still is fucked up and wrong. 

“Fine, fine, just give me the damn thing,” he pretends to grumble. With quiet, dignified triumph, Beetee places the quickly depleting cigarette between Haymitch’s fingers, and Haymitch takes a deep, defiant puff, more or less blowing out the smoke straight into Beetee’s face, to show him he isn’t the boss of Haymitch or anything. But his body, not used to smoke shot directly in his lungs like that, strikes back immediately, plunging him into a maniacal bout of coughing that feels like sandpaper being scraped across the back of his throat; so much for coming across as the big, bad Hunger Games victor. 

Beetee, for the love of the Capitol, stares at him, a little unfocused, and _giggles_. 

“Shut up,” he tries to sound as grumpy about it as he feels, but Beetee’s laughter is infectious, and he is soon smirking as well. Beetee wobbles out a clumsy arm towards him, pulling them together. A startled jolt of electricity runs through Haymitch at the unplanned, invasive touch, but he reminds himself that it’s a positive gesture. Beetee uses the leverage between them, and Haymitch gives in, letting himself be pulled onto his back with his head on Beetee’s lap. He welcomes the calm, distant feeling that’s washing over everything, thanks to the drug, and it’s like he’s at the far end of a large room, while everything else in the world is all the way _over there_. His back feels the bricks pressing hard and cold through the thin satin shirt his prep team chose to match his pants, but his mind doesn’t care what it feels like. The back of his head is atop Beetee’s crossed legs, and all of a sudden, everything about the world feels a bit better. 

“Beetee?” he calls out to the stars in the sky, after they’ve been silent a while. 

Next to his head, Beetee’s hand is grinding out the depleted cigarette on the bricks. “Yes, Haymitch?” He sounds distant too, like when they first came up on the roof, but not spooked anymore. 

“What’s it like? Mentoring?” 

Maybe the drug is loosening his tongue. 

“Awful as you think it will be.” 

“Oh.” The word catches in his throat. 

Beetee’s fingers end up in his hair, his voice hovering over him like an autumn leaf swinging its lazy way down to the ground. “You get used to it, though.” 

“Really?” He knows if he weren’t high, he’d hate how dumb he sounds, but damn, that drug must be pretty good. If they had this in Twelve, he thinks, he might be using his victor money to buy it all the time. 

“No, not really,” Beetee admits. “It stays pretty much the same amount of awful all the time, as far as I can tell. But what else should I say? It’s not like we have a choice.” 

Haymitch’s mouth quirks. “Pretty masterful pep talk, Latier. I’m feeling better already.” 

The laughter falls out of Beetee, and, even under the influence of the drug, it pleases Haymitch, makes him feel infinitely powerful. 

“You’re welcome,” Beetee replies, after he’s recovered, sounding a bit like the President bestowing an award for patriotism, which makes Haymitch snort. They both giggle a bit more. 

The stars in the nighttime sky are suddenly no competition for Beetee’s larger-than-life head leaning over Haymitch. His lips planting a measured, deliberate kiss on the center of Haymitch’s forehead. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll look out for you,” he promises. “I’ll show you the ropes, like Swagger did for me.” 

“You mean, that wasn't total bullshit?” Haymitch almost squeaks with surprise. “I thought you were just fucking with Laurenti.” 

“Nah. Swagger was a nice guy, a really nice guy. He looked out for people, cared about people. He was unlike every other victor I've ever met; well, except maybe Mags. He took the mentoring thing so fucking seriously,” he sighs. “I think he killed himself because he just couldn't take the thought of losing twice as many tributes in one year.” 

Haymitch blinks back discomfort, realizing that he doesn't know what he's going to do with two tributes next year, even with other mentors helping him. “So Swagger showed you how?” he asks, for something to say. 

“Yeah. For all the good it's done.” Beetee voice turns hard again. “You heard Laurenti down there. I’ve been doing this for three years, and I still haven’t brought one home.” 

Haymitch finally realizes how Laurenti’s jab in the interview earlier today stung more than Beetee let anyone realize. The drug must be making him slow on the uptake.

“But everyone eventually comes through, don’t they?” Haymitch insists, knowing he sounds naïve, but Beetee is so obviously unhappy all of a sudden, and Haymitch feels like his mentioning the mentoring stuff robbed Beetee of whatever was keeping him on an even keel. “I mean, except Swagger, I guess. But the odds eventually have to work out in—” 

“The odds are just numbers, Haymitch.” Even with the drug muting it, the bitterness in his voice sounds like knives slashing into bare skin. “They’re not even meaningful numbers, just ones the Gamesmakers pull out of thin air, based on last year’s numbers, on their subjective opinions, based on how much they like a tribute. It’s not like science, where numbers and probability actually mean something. Honestly, the best advice I can give to you is to never start believing in them.” His face scowls with disdain. “You should see how that messes with the Careers when they first get there to mentor. Those gorillas are so used to winning everything, they think they’re special. Everyone tells them not to expect a winning tribute their first year, no matter the high training scores, to be patient, because not even a Career gets one their first year. They think they’re going to be the exception anyway, the one to beat the system.” As he gazes into the night sky, it seems to displease him somehow. “They’re such babies about it, when there are other districts that almost never get to bring someone home.” 

_Like me_ , Haymitch thinks. He’s going to be the new Swagger. He’s never bringing a tribute home, ever. And he can’t afford to think about that right now, not when he’s still got Districts Two and One to get through, and then there’s the Capitol, and … _fuck_. He’s going to have to see _Snow_ again. His stomach ties into a knot, while Beetee continues on, oblivious:

“Really, the best thing you can do for yourself,” says Beetee, “is to face up to the fact the only things you can really control is how much weight your tribute’s got on their bones and how much training they’ve had. The sponsors definitely affect things, but then it’s a question of how willing the tribute is to be a killer, and the dumb luck of whatever random shit goes down in the Arena. And who knows how much of it is rigged by the Gamesmakers anyway. The sooner you get all that, the less this stuff is going to fuck with your head. ” 

Haymitch has never been one to hide from the truth; in fact it’s a point of bitter pride with him sometimes. But he suddenly can’t hear this line of thinking anymore, and he curses himself for ever having brought this mentoring thing up. The coming years ahead as a mentor unfurl all at once in front of his mind’s eye, making him feel like every speck of available breathable air around him is being rapidly extinguished. He rushes in like a desperate miner with only a pickaxe at a cave-in. “Corelli, I’m real glad we had this smoke of yours. “Really lightens the mood.” 

There is silence, while Beetee absorbs the sarcasm, then processes it, then finally emits a harsh laugh. 

“Yeah, well, it _usually_ works wonders,” he protests, but Haymitch his voice goes quiet. 

“Listen to me: I sound like a whining baby myself,” Beetee says. His tone deliberately lightens. “Don't pay attention to what I just said,” he says hurriedly, like he’s finally realized the implications of his little speech for Haymitch. “Half the stuff that comes out of my mouth is nonsense anyway. Yeah, it’s all luck, but sometimes luck works in your favor too, you know?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Haymitch tries. He knows he doesn’t sound convinced, at least he’s able to breathe again. While that isn’t much, he’s still grateful for the thin beam of light shining in between all the collapsed rocks. 

“Mentoring tributes is no fun whatsoever,” Beetee acknowledges. “But we can at least have no fun together next year, right?” 

“Yeah, absolutely we can,” Haymitch replies, his tone getting more even. He can hear Beetee’s bluster returning. Yes. Definitely better. 

“Besides,” Beetee says. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll be a great addition to the little group I’ve got going with some of the younger victors. We pull a big _fuck you_ prank on the Capitol every year. Haven’t been caught yet. What do you think? You game for it?” 

“I’m game,” he echoes, wondering what he’s getting himself into, but deciding not to care. “As long as it’s with you,” he adds, before thinking better of it. But the remark elicits a genuinely pleased grin out of Beetee, and Haymitch feels a streak of relief to see it. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Haymitch.” His face obscures the night sky once again, and Haymitch’s head rises slightly to meet Beetee’s this time. It’s a quick kiss, but one with obvious affection, and afterward, their fingers entangle atop Haymitch’s solar plexus as they look away, Beetee off at the skyline again, and Haymitch again up at the stars.

“Good,” is all Haymitch says after a moment. Right now, that's maybe just barely enough.


End file.
